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BROKEN  ARCS 


BY 

DARRELL  FIGGIS 


"On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs;  in  the  heaven, 
a  perfect  round." — Abt  Vogler. 


New  York  &  London 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
1912 


Copyright  igi2  by 
Mitchell  Kennerley 


Priss  of  J,  J.  Little  ^  Ives  Company 

East  Twenty-fourth  Street 

New  Tork 


TO 

MY  WIFE 

You  will  remember,  nearly  seven  years  ago,  telling  me 
the  fragments  of  a  countryside  tale  that  had  come  to  your 
ears ;  and  you  will  remember  as  we  lay  in  a  secluded  lane 
under  a  bounty  of  wildrose,  and  spoke  together  of  it,  how 
it  began  to  take  shape  and  outline,  and  how  the  deter- 
mination then  came  to  write  of  it.  This  is  it.  Its  very 
familiarity  in  the  thought  has  given  it  a  coherence  belong- 
ing rather  to  its  memory  than  the  telling  of  it.  If  this  be 
so,  then  this  gives  it  a  fault  it  was  doomed  to  wear.  Yet, 
since  it  is  something  to  have  completed  a  resolve,  the 
completion  is  dedicated  to  you,  to  whom  the  resolve  was 
made. 


35929^ 


O 


BOOK  I 

IMPULSIONS 


BROKEN    ARCS 


Andrew  Foggetty  was  a  worthy  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Suffolk  that  owned  him  for  inhabitant. 
Though  he  farmed  a  fairly  extensive  area  of  its  slopes 
and  valleys,  yet  it  was  not  his  occupation  as  farmer 
that  earned  him  his  peculiar  repute,  but  rather  his  rec- 
reation as  theologian.  He  belonged  to  a  sect  of 
strait  opinions  and  swift  and  unerring  judgments.  De- 
spite this  deadly  accuracy,  however,  and  even  in  de- 
spite of  certain  opinions  they  nurtured  as  to  their  ex- 
pressing in  complete  finality  the  mature  convictions  of 
the  Almighty  concerning  the  tendency  and  upshot  of 
the  whole  universe,  vital  and  ponderable,  they  might 
nevertheless  not  have  loomed  largely  in  public  atten- 
tion had  it  not  been  that  they  possessed  for  their 
chiefest  luminary  so  determined  a  person  as  Andrew 
Foggetty.  Not  that  he  seemed  determined  at  the 
first  flush  of  acquaintance.  Indeed,  he  might  have 
been  set  down,  and  would  probably  have  been  set 
down,  as  extremely  docile.  But  the  explorer  in  the 
realms  of  psychological  intricacy  would  discover  this 
docility  to  be  the  resultant  of  a  concentrated  fierceness. 
If  he  appeared  meek,  it  was  not  that  he  thought  him- 
self a  fragile  creature  and  a  nonentity,  but  that  he 
considered  a  docile  nature  the  indication  of  heavenly 
forbearance  toward  earthy  clay.  If  he  was  gentle,  it 
was  not  that  he  considered  himself  a  fearful  person 
moving  among  others  goodlier  than  he,  but  rather  that 

3 


4  Broken  Arcs 

he  forebore  with  those  who  could  not  see  the  heavenly 
crown  that  already  clasped  his  brow.  A  gracious 
smile  he  had  that  routed  his  opponents  In  theological 
controversy.  *'Who  can  oppose  dear  Andrew?"  said 
they.  Yet  his  smile  meant  merely  bewilderment  that 
any  could  so  succumb  to  folly  as  not  to  know  for  eter- 
nal verity  the  thing  that  shone  so  clearly  before  his 
own  eye. 

Yet  his  adhesion  to  the  Strait  Sect  not  only  raised 
it  out  of  the  limbo  of  darkness  into  the  light  of  public 
attention,  It  succeeded  in  accomplishing  no  less  a  serv- 
ice for  himself.  It  was  as  though  from  out  the  im- 
pact of  two  rayless  stars  in  the  eternal  realms  of  space 
a  new  and  momentous  luminary  had  leapt  to  glory. 
In  his  capacity  of  Itinerant  preacher  (a  service  that 
occupied  all  his  leisure  hours)  he  was  a  figure  of  toler- 
able familiarity  in  most  of  the  towns  that  sprinkled  the 
emerald  fields  round  and  about  the  countryside.  Old- 
hamlet,  however,  knew  him  best;  for  It  was  Oldhamlet 
that  was  his  chief  centre  of  operations,  and  his  chief 
occasion  of  resort  for  self-refreshment  and  the  refresh- 
ment of  others. 

His  face  was  pinched  and  his  mouth  was  pursed. 
A  swift  and  direct  nasal  organ  had  once  earned  him 
the  undesirable  epithet  of  *'foxy."  His  moustache 
made  fearful  similarity  at  times  to  that  of  a  walrus; 
chiefly  after  drinking.  A  kindly  touch  was  given  to 
his  face  by  fair  feathery  hair,  that  glimmered  In  the 
sun,  upon  his  cheeks  beyond  the  limits  of  shaving, 
clearly  defining  the  razor  line,  like  grasses  lying  along 
the  border  of  the  utmost  tide-reach  on  sand  dunes. 
Precisely  why  this  should  have  given  a  kindly  touch 
to  his  face  Is  one  of  those  Inscrutable  and  intangible 
things  lying  beyond  the  realms  of  conscious  thought; 
yet  it  certainly  was  so.     His  grey  eyes  now  and  then 


Impulsions  5 

twinkled  with  humour;  twinkled  indeed,  and  attract- 
ively; but  not  for  long.  For  it  was  as  though  a  grave 
being  dwelt  in  the  brain  behind  this  humour;  and  so 
soon  as  the  truant  humour  appeared,  it  was  as  swiftly 
dragged  back  and  shut  down  in  a  remote  cellarage  of 
the  mind.  Self-repression,  and  the  reduction  of  per- 
sonality to  the  point  of  annihilation,  being  a  matter  of 
faith  with  him,  had  thereby  become  as  second  nature. 
A  wit,  spending  a  holiday  in  Oldhamlet,  had  called 
Foggetty  a  "caricature  of  his  possibilities";  which, 
as  the  Vicar  had  laughed  at  it  when  he  heard  it,  An- 
drew judged  to  be  unkindly;  but  which  was  indeed 
kindly  because  discerning.  Nevertheless,  It  so  hap- 
pened, as  usually  happens  when  Man  endeavours  to 
play  uncomely  tricks  with  Nature,  that  as  he  drove  one 
Ego  doughtily  before  him  into  the  Interminable  brush- 
wood of  things  forgotten,  another  and  less  desirable 
Ego  strode  out  behind  him  to  conquer  and  be  supreme. 

Wildbrook  Farmhouse,  happily  for  him,  for  of 
walking  he  was  not  over-fond,  lay  at  but  a  short  dis- 
tance from  Oldhamlet.  It  had  been  first  leased  by 
his  father;  and  had  passed  to  him  as  a  happy  heredita- 
ment. In  his  charge  Its  pristine  prosperity  had  de- 
clined, however. 

"Wot  can  you  expect?"  James  Tepson  had  said — 
a  farmer  of  rubicund  countenance  and  mighty  stature, 
he,  who  had  leased  the  worst  farm  round  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  who  had  achieved  local  celebrity  by 
making  it  coin  an  annuity  for  the  first  time  in  the  mem- 
ory of  his  eldest  listener.  "Never  tell  me  that  you 
can  make  a  farm  go — go,  I  say — while  you're  sitting 
and  a-porin'  ore  a  tarned  man  tellin'  you  wot  Danel 
meant  'bout  clay  feet/'*  Inexpressible  scorn  had  burst 
at  the  height  of  its  crescendo,  and  to  cool  his  emotions 
his  nose  had  dived  down  Into  a  massive  mug  of  flat 


6  Broken  Arcs 

small  ale  that  had  lain  untouched  this  last  hour.  "It 
can't  be  done,'*  came  finally,  as  the  granite  face 
emerged  again  up  to  the  light  of  day;  "  'tisn't  recig- 
nisble  in  Nature." 

This  the  whole  countryside  had  felt.  Whether 
James  Tepson  expressed  the  sentiments  of  the  country- 
side, or  whether  the  countryside  expressed  the  senti- 
ments of  Tepson,  is  too  intricate  a  matter  for  dis- 
covery. It  was  everywhere  apparent,  however,  that 
labyrinthine  theology  and  mangel-wurzels  consorted 
not ;  that  the  eye  that  could  parcel  out  with  mathemat- 
ical precision  national.  International,  terrestrial,  celes- 
tial, and  infernal  happenings  for  a  mild  matter  of  mil- 
lenniums was  thereby  unfitted  to  select  with  sufficient 
accuracy  such  matters  as  manures  and  crops.  The 
more  notable  matter  for  present  attention  is,  however, 
that  Andrew's  mind  had  become  familiarized  with  cer- 
tain sharp  and  unalterable  dovetalllngs  of  eternal  pre- 
cision, that  wore  for  him  the  favour  of  divine  Beauty 
of  Person;  and  his  mind  had  thereby  become  preoccu- 
pied with  this  mechanical  cohesion  not  only  to  the  ne- 
glect of  his  farm,  but  no  less  to  the  neglect  of  those 
gentler  relations  of  life  that  constitute  the  blood  of 
character  and  the  sap  of  human  kindliness.  He  was 
wont  to  Instance  himself  as  a  marvel  of  divine  predes- 
tination. "Why  the  Lord  should  have  chosen  me  I 
do  not  know,"  he  would  say,  with  the  settled  convic- 
tion that  the  Lord  had  so  chosen  nevertheless,  and  that 
the  Lord  was  all-wise.  One  regarding  him,  and  hear- 
ing him,  might  well  wonder  too;  and  leave  the  ques- 
tion, fitly  Impressed  with  the  inscrutableness  of  the 
mystery.  Alas,  that  the  sentiments  drunk  up  Into  char- 
acter do  not  remain  a  personal  concern,  but  radiate 
and  ramify  Into  the  lot  of  others,  bringing  what  mis- 
chief and  blessing  we  know  not  I 


Impulsions  7 

So  the  years  brought  further  declension  of  pros- 
perity at  Wildbrook  Farm,  and  increased  acquaintance 
with  the  letter  of  theological  intricacy,  each  playing  in 
and  to  the  other  like  lightning  to  lightning  over  a  sum- 
mer sky.  This  did  not  so  much  disturb  his  mental 
equilibrium  as  it  did  that  of  Mary,  his  good  wife. 

She  was  sharper-featured  than  he,  alert  and  thin, 
over-busy  with  household  matters  withal,  to  the  stulti- 
fication of  visible  emotion  and  the  congenial  interplay 
with  society  of  any  sort.  This  was  only  too  perceiv- 
able by  all;  yet  it  needed  no  very  acute  perception  to 
note  a  certain  quality  that  hung  in  her  grey  eye,  that 
told  of  suppressed  emotions ;  a  quality  of  warmth  that 
spoke  of  subterrene  strength  a  little  bitter.  It  was 
she  who  had  established  the  poultry-run;  it  was  she 
who  tended  it  with  unfailing  assiduity,  with  the  comely 
Rose  to  aid  her.  With  such  success  did  she  do  so,  that 
Andrew  had  been  known  to  declare  at  Oldhamlet  Mar- 
ket that  he  thanked  the  Lord  for  this  anyway,  that  his 
poultry-run  cleared  his  rent  invariably,  and  moreover 
gave  him  a  little  in  hand  over  and  above.  It  was  an 
incautious  remark  at  best.  For  farming  was  suffi- 
ciently hard-pressed  a  calling  for  any  suggestion  of  in- 
cidental profits  to  be  hailed  with  avidity.  Therefore 
many  other  farmers  had  promptly  laid  great  stress  on 
poultry  in  their  farm  economy,  considerably  cutting 
into  Foggetty's  pre-eminence.  Still,  Mrs.  Foggetty 
was  not  to  be  reduced  to  her  last  entrenchment  so ;  for 
she  then  opened  communications  with  the  Flatland  of 
Western  London  for  the  direct  supply  of  eggs,  and 
so  acquired  a  dependable  and  independent  proprietary, 
though  it  meant  that  her  last  hours  of  personal  leisure 
were  now  finally  gone;  and  her  labours,  even  with  the 
dusk-haired  Rose  by  her  side,  outspent  now  the  tolling 
of  the  midnight  b^U  only  too  frequently. 


8  Broken  Arcs 


II 

It  was  Rose  that  was  now  the  occasion  of  discussion 
between  Andrew  and  Mary  Foggetty.  The  concate- 
nation of  several  mishaps  in  farming  venture  had  co- 
incided with  a  letter  from  a  friend  recommending  a 
situation  in  a  goodly  family  of  Ipstowe  which  could 
be  duly  influenced  for  the  asking.  Preoccupied  An- 
drew was  all  for  prompt  acceptance;  Mary's  motherly 
instinct  hung  back,  however.  She  did  not  expect  Rose 
always  to  be  contained  at  home;  no,  no,  it  was  not 
that;  yet  Rose  was  but  seventeen,  which  in  her  judg- 
ment was  too  unripe  an  age  for  any  girl  to  venture  the 
experience  of  the  world. 

Yet  in  truth,  though  Rose  was  of  so  tender  an  age, 
It  must  be  confessed  that  she  scarcely  looked  it.  Suffi- 
ciently under  average  stature  to  suggest  intensity  of 
temperament,  no  willowy  beauty  was  hers.  Her  limbs 
and  figure  were  even  now  of  sufficient  rondure  and 
fulness  to  suggest  voluptuous  maturity,  though  mixed 
withal  with  girlish  charm.  Yet  when  she  walked,  and 
more  when  she  ran,  from  neck  to  ankle  she  flowed  so 
with  continuity  of  curve,  decorative  of  apt  proportion, 
that  she  seemed  of  slighter  girth  and  of  loftier  stature 
than  actually  she  had.  The  bloom  of  health  sat  on 
her  cheeks  in  delicate  tincture,  and  her  nose  suggested 
the  translucency  of  a  shell.  Her  dusky  hair,  like  sil- 
ver night  elbowing  the  gloom  of  twilight,  flowed  from 
off  her  lofty  forehead  in  tender  masses  to  a  simple 
coiffure.  In  her  eyes  was  the  blue  of  romance,  limpid, 
and  yet  interlaced  with  a  harder  grey. 

She  herself  was  not  averse  to  the  proposed  change ; 
rather  she  welcomed  it  with  ardour.  Young  blood  is 
urgent    for   adventures;  but  no  adventure  did  Wild- 


Impulsions  9 

brook  Farm  find  her.  Even  the  nearer,  yet  still  suffi- 
ciently wild  romance  of  twilit  hedgerows  in  company 
with  any  or  other  bold  and  youthful  bucolic  was  for- 
bidden her.  Forbidden  not  only  by  imperative  poul- 
try operations,  nor  only  by  the  stern,  inflexible  precept 
of  her  father,  to  whom  love,  though  once  indeed  it 
was  wild  to  him,  wore  the  deadly  hue  of  human  frailty; 
but  more  by  the  sure  and  lynx-eyed  policy  of  her 
mother.  Forbid  an  inch,  and  human  nature  rises  im- 
perious for  an  ell.  And  so  Rose,  with  wildness  run- 
ning the  wilder  in  her  blood  because  of  repression, 
added  her  voice  to  her  own  undoing. 


HI 

Yet  it  must  be  admitted  that  not  much  of  the  de- 
cision was  to  lie  in  her  own  hands.  Her  interposition 
was  swiftly  set  aside  by  her  being  bidden  out  of  the 
room,  though  her  voice  served  to  set  the  tide  of  ad- 
vantage in  her  father's  favour. 

He  who  thinks  to  make  accurate  prognosis  of  a 
man's  action  from  a  careful  survey  of  his  declared 
opinions  is  already  foredoomed  to  a  disastrous  awak- 
ening. Andrew  was  an  example  of  manlike  vagary, 
even  to  his  own  bosom-wife's  bewilderment.  She  had 
trusted  on  advancing  the  omnipotent  plea  of  anti- 
worldliness.  Obviously  to  send  Rose  out  to  combat 
the  world  was  to  set  her  amid  the  gins  and  snares  of 
the  tempter;  wherefore  with  reflex  rapidity  her  mind 
set  down  as  sure  beyond  conviction  that  Andrew's 
lofty  tenets  would  refuse,  at  whatever  cost,  to  expose 
his  flower  of  summer  to  the  possible  soilure  of  evil. 
She  said  so  much,  with  an  air  of  victory  complete,  sit- 
ting then  foursquare  in  her  hard  chair  in  the  gathering 


10  Broken  Arcs 

dusk  of  early  spring,  facing  Andrew  with  some  pres- 
sure of  lips. 

But  Andrew  In  calm  graclousness  turned  her  flank 
by  the  deadly  manoeuvre  of  refusing  to  occupy  the 
battlements  arbitrarily  set  out  for  him. 

"But,  my  dear  Mary,"  he  said,  "of  course  what  you 
say  is  deeply  true;  we  must  indeed  guard  our  child. 
But  you  forget,  my  dear,  that  we  must  recognize  con- 
ditions. We  are  In  the  hands  of  God,  It  is  true;  but 
the  value  of  a  soul  is  Its  power  of  resistance.  We 
must  vanquish  the  Evil  one ;  but  we  can  only  vanquish 
him  by  meeting  him,  not  by  avoiding  him.  Even  the 
Master  had  to  be  equipped  for  His  work  by  a  long 
Tvrestle  with  the  Tempter.  It  is  so  always.  We  must 
lielp  Rose  by  advising  her;  by  praying  for  her,  and 
strengthening  her.  But  It  Is  not  our  business  to  take 
her  out  of  the  conflict.  And,  Mary,  think !  we  couldn't 
do  so  if  we  wished  It  never  so  much.  For  we  cannot 
always  be  with  her.  She  must  brave  the  battle  some 
time." 

"Yes,  but  she  is  so  young!" 

"True,  she  is  young.  Now  you  touch  the  difficulty 
of  all:  her  youth.  That  troubles  me,  I  must  admit. 
But  see  how  things  have  shaped  themselves  I  Does 
there  not  seem  a  destiny  In  it?" 

"But,  Andrew,  you're  so  annoying." 

"My  dearl" 

"Yes,  you  are!  If  you  like  a  thing.  It's  destiny;  If 
you  don't  like  It,  It's  temptation.  I'm  sorry,  Andrew; 
but  I  must  say  it.     /  think  this  is  a  temptation." 

"By  the  same  manner  of  reasoning,  Mary,  you  mean 
that  you  don't  like  it." 

"Yes." 

"I  see.     But  what  have  our  likings  to  do  with  it?" 

This  was  a  bewildering  assumption  of  the  position 


Impulsions  11 

of  affairs  prior  to  her  exceedingly  awkward  attack  on 
his  main  redoubt;  and  Mary  was  frankly  nonplussed. 
So  Andrew,  after  waiting  a  moment,  looking  gravely 
at  his  wife  the  while,  went  on — 

*'You  see,  Mary,  we're  not  concerned  in  the  matter. 
There  seems  to  me  a  distinct  leading  in  the  matter." 
This  time  he  trod  firmly  over  the  bridge  that  she  had 
routed  him  from  before,  relying,  without  appreciating 
that  he  did  so,  on  the  fact  that  human  nature,  lover  of 
change  as  it  is,  has  an  antipathy  to  two  victories  of 
precisely  similar  nature,  even  though  the  second  be 
assured.  "It's  not  a  question  of  ourselves.  When 
you  come  to  consider  it,  it's  very  curious,  and  more! 
it  is  very  illuminating,  how  all  things  seemed  to  have 
joined  in  pressing  this  matter.  Here  comes  Ted's 
very  kindly  letter  just  at  the  very  time  I  feel  most 
keenly  that  loss  in  cattle " 

*'Will  you  try  and  make  good  that  loss  over  the 
sheep?" 

"Certainly  I  will!" 

"Why— if  it's  the  Lord's  will." 

"That's  a  very  shortsighted  way  of  looking  at  it, 
Mary!" 

"You  say  so!" 

"But  is  it  not  so?" 

Another  discomfiture!  Poor  Mary,  without  any 
question  as  to  the  rights  or  wrongs  of  her  case,  was 
being  slowly  yet  surely  pressed  steadily  out  of  the  field. 
And  each  position  relinquished  was  notified  by  her 
failure  to  give  back  reply  to  reply,  permitting  Andrew 
to  enter  fresh  issues,  which  he  did. 

"Another  thing  you  seem  to  forget,  Mary — and 
this  seems  to  me  much  like  a  sinful  assumption — is 
that  the  Lord  can  look  to  Rose  fully  as  well  as  we — 
better,  far  better!     The  whole  question  before  us  is 


12  Broken  Arcs 

simply  one  of  faith.  And  it  seems  to  me  we  do 
wrongly  to  hesitate.  What  right  have  we  to  hesi- 
tate ?'* 

*'Then,  Andrew,  you  have  decided  to  send  her?" 
Poor  Mary's  face  was  pitiful  with  tragic  decision. 
What  do  mothers  know  of  Impending  peril?  Does 
the  preternatural  sixth  sense,  the  swift  psychic  intui- 
tion, come  with  the  bearing  of  child?  Have  they  fateful 
lodgements  In  them? 

"I  have  not  decided;  I  am  consulting  with  you." 

"Andrew,  you're  not  consulting  with  me;  youVe  just 
beating  me  in  argument." 

"But,  my  dear,  I'm  waiting  to  hear  your  reasons. 
Until  good  reasons  are  given  I  must  assume  your  ob* 
jections  have  no  value." 

"But  I  have  given  reasons." 

"And  I  have  attempted  to  show  you — I  think,  I 
hope,  graciously  to  show  you — that  your  reasons  are 
no  reasons,  that  they  have  no  value,  that  they  seem  to 
me  to  be  flying  In  the  face  of  a  Divine  will.  So  it 
seems  to  me." 

"When  is  she  to  go?" 

"Now  you're  deciding." 

"I'm  only  putting  your  intention  into  words,  An- 
drew." She  spoke  wearily.  "I  know  from  experi- 
ence what  a  waste  of  time  argument  is.  You  will  have 
your  way,  I  suppose.     I  will  go  and  tell  Rose." 

She  went  out  of  the  room;  and  as  she  was  going 
Andrew  felt  a  youngling  pity  leap  alive  in  him,  bidding 
him  call  her  back,  and  concede  her  point  with  a  meek 
shrug,  so  to  gain  the  comfort  of  mind  he  had  not  now: 
positively  by  setting  aside  the  lurking  faun  of  anxiety 
that  sprang  through  the  ambush  of  his  soul,  and  nega- 
tively by  creating  the  discomfort  in  her  of  wresting 
her  point  by  feminine  yet  most  unwomanly  dogged- 


Impulsions  IJ 

ness.  But  that  this  should  be  it  was  of  course  neces- 
sary that  the  vital  decision  should  be  achieved  while 
she  passed  before  him  from  the  fireside  chair  to  the 
door.  A  quick  decision;  and  unfitted  to  the  tentative 
nature  of  the  mental  operation!  Thus  it  was  that 
when  she  had  left  it  was  too  late  for  reluctances ;  and 
with  something  of  perplexity,  of  responsibility  mixed 
in  with  his  relief,  he  went  over  to  a  shelf  adjacent  and 
picked  a  theological  octavo  to  toy  with  in  the  line  of 
reading. 

IV 

So  it  came  about  that  Rose  was  to  taste  the  sweetly 
brackish  world.  From  the  aloof  dovecote  of  Wild- 
brook  Farm,  from  the  routine  of  simplicity,  most  win- 
some to  the  thought,  but  most  monotonous  in  the  prac- 
tice, she  was  to  venture  to  do  pioneer  in  circumstance. 
Not  the  first,  she!  Yet  though  frequency  inspires 
monotony,  and  repetition  heedlessness,  each  such  ven- 
ture trembles  with  vitality. 

The  inner  thought  of  Rose  who  can  tell,  as  prepara- 
tions for  her  departure  were  set  afoot  under  Mrs. 
Foggetty's  motherly  tenderness?  Thoughts?  Emo- 
tions, rather;  a  confusion  of  colours  and  throbbing 
rhythms,  mixed  inextricably  with  the  business  of  ar- 
rangements. Now  that  the  decision  had  indeed  ar- 
rived, fear  took  hold  on  her.  And,  though  Ipstowe 
lay  at  no  such  great  remove,  yet  as  she  took  her  way 
these  days  through  Oldhamlet,  its  cottages,  houses  and 
lanes  wore  shades  of  sadness  to  her  eye.  The  spring 
sun  seemed  to  have  hues  of  Autumn  in  it.  The  trees, 
heavy  in  snowy  blossom,  like  the  front  of  a  gay  Sum- 
mer taunting  a  defeated  Winter  with  display  of  its 
own  peculiar  glory,  whispered  to  her,  in  the  straying 


14  Broken  Arcs 

breezes,  of  jollity  left  behind.  Ipstowe,  that  had 
loomed  romantic  to  her  before,  now  seemed  to  her 
swift  sensibilities  as  being  rocked  perpetually  in  the 
arms  of  a  grey,  wet,  wizened  winter.  Did  Summer 
ever  come  to  cities?  Assuredly  Spring  could  not.  So 
she  fluctuated  between  fear  and  desire,  hope  and  be- 
wilderment, prospect,  sadness  and  anxiety. 

Mrs.  Foggetty,  too,  though  busied  by  day,  and 
through  much  of  the  night,  with  preparations  far  be- 
yond the  simple  needs  of  Rose's  position  and  Rose's 
person,  was  haunted  by  motherly  fear  and  care,  lying 
awake  of  a  night  imagining  evils  innumerable.  Only 
Andrew  found  preoccupation.  It  would  be  most  un- 
fair to  him  to  say  that  he  knew  neither  care  nor  anx- 
iety. Indeed,  frequently  they  girt  him  about  with 
ruthless  dominion.  Yet,  if  the  farmstead  did  not  oc- 
cupy him  to  sufficient  exclusion,  he  had  ever  the  alluring 
fields  of  prospective  cataclysms  to  befall  this  mon- 
strous world.  And  to  these  he  fled.  He  turned  to 
them  for  succour;  and  they  succoured  him.  Wherein 
he  was  fortunate  if  a  little  selfish. 

With  ruthless,  relentless  step  came  the  day  in  May 
when  Mrs.  Foggetty  took  Rose,  looking  bewitching 
despite  an  effort  at  fashion,  up  to  Ipstowe,  to  install 
her  in  her  new  abode. 

Ipstowe  was  the  battleground  of  town,  city  and 
country.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  city,  though  an  unpreten- 
tious one;  but  it  wore  the  general  visage  of  a  town; 
it  had  the  general  habiliments,  manners  and  aspira- 
tions of  a  town.  The  distinction  between  a  town- 
inhabitant  in  proper  demeanour,  and  a  city-inhabitant 
in  proper  demeanour,  is  an  insidious  and  subtle  one  to 
bid  step  forward  In  words,  though  that  such  a  distinc- 
tion Is  set  with  its  foundations  deep  down  In  veracious 
and  undeniable  mannerism  is  a  thing  not  to  be  called 


Impulsions  15 

in  question.  By  this  distinction  the  inhabitants  were 
indisputably  town-inhabitants.  It  was  as  though  city 
honours  had  suddenly  floated  down  on  them,  and 
found  them  unready  to  wear  them.  They  were  not 
citizens  r  the  name  refused  to  fit  them.  They  had 
nothing  of  the  breadth  of  citizens :  not  even  the  corpu- 
lent breadth  of  citizens.  They  had  no  true  market- 
square  of  course  (it  was  a  city),  though  it  had  obscure 
and  undiscoverable  market-places;  market-places  for 
specific  events;  but  the  inhabitants  were  wont  to  stroll 
the  streets  at  dusk  disconsolately,  remembering  that 
they  had  had  a  market-square,  but  that  it  had  been 
clandestinely  spirited  away  from  them.  They  had  a 
cathedral.  But  whether  it  was  because  this  cathedral, 
bringing  In  Its  ecclesiastical  train  the  merely  secular 
honour  of  citydom,  was  the  deep-seated  cause  of  their 
troubles,  or  whether  its  ponderable  pile  awed  their 
souls,  struggling  as  yet  in  bucolic  chrysalis,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  say;  the  fact  is  sufficient  that  they  avoided  It 
sedulously  and,  as  it  were,  suspiciously,  with  averted 
face  and  protrudant  shoulder.  On  Sundays  some  of 
the  worthier  burgesses  sufficiently  overcame  their  an- 
tipathy to  besprinkle  its  roomy  proportions  with  broad- 
cloth and  silks,  so  to  deaden  a  little  the  hollow  echoes 
of  a  service  that  proceeded,  for  the  sake  of  adventi- 
tious enlivenment  doubtless,  at  quick-gallop.  But  at 
all  other  whiles  it  was  left  to  reverberate  with  the  sibi- 
lant whispers  of  chance  visitors;  or  to  repose,  feeling 
its  soul  in  pride  and  silence. 

Its  main  street  ran  up  amid  shops  of  sumptuous  hue 
and  goodly  display  this  Spring  morning;  carrying  on 
Its  pavements,  among  their  humbler  frequenters,  a 
considerable  rally  of  young  men  and  maidens  of  lei* 
sure.  The  young  maidens  were  of  healthful  queenly 
carriage  and  frank  countenance,  blending  their  laugh- 


1 6  Broken  Arcs 

ter  easily  and  happily  with  the  sunshine.  The  young 
men  were  scarcely  so  natural;  they  seemed  to  labour 
under  the  painful  necessity  of  adorning  their  bold 
characters.  Both  men  and  maidens  trod  the  streets 
with  the  firm  steps  and  conviction  that  this  was  verita- 
ble country.  It  had  ever  been  so  with  them ;  and  they 
showed  it  in  air,  gait  and  garment;  rough  tweed  and 
caps  showing  off  their  athletic  figures,  their  wind  and 
sun-tanned  faces.  The  street  was  a-bustle  with  laugh- 
ter and  healthful  activity.  A  country  wind  swept  up 
it  withal,  softly  laden  with  breath  of  blossom. 

Up  this  High  Street  Rose  attracted  some  attention 
with  her  twilit  beauty,  as  Mrs.  Foggetty  led  her  to  the 
westerly  end  where  goodly  abodes  lay.  Such  of  the 
young  men  as  had  no  maidens  to  cavalier,  mingled 
ardent  praise  of  her  with  critical  disparagement  of 
anxious,  honest  Mary,  whose  heart  flew  all  a-flutter 
for  her  child.  Rose  herself,  though  no  stranger  to 
the  city,  found  sadness  immersed  in  wonderment,  as 
though  Ipstowe  had  become  a  new  place  to  her 
eye  now  that  it  was  to  be  her  dwelling-place.  These 
very  familiar  milliners'  shops  that  had  aforetime 
supplied  her  with  fineries,  seemed  decked  strangely  to 
her. 

Having  deposited  her  sacred  charge,  and  taken  fare- 
well of  her,  mingling  farewell  with  prodigal  counsel, 
Mrs.  Foggetty  made  her  way  back  to  the  railway  sta- 
tion at  the  remote  end  of  the  city,  from  which  a  single 
line  ran  to  Oldhamlet.  Here  she  discovered  Andrew 
but  newly  arrived. 

*'I  came  on  by  the  next  train,"  said  he  awkwardly, 
^'thinking  I  might  catch  Rose  and  you  before  you  went 
on.  It  was,  of  course,  foolish;  yet  I  felt  a  little  rest- 
less. How  did  you  leave  the  child?  Did  she  take  on 
at  all  at  being  left?" 


Impulsions  17 

"No,  sheUl  feel  it  on  the  morrow.  Strangeness  al- 
ways overcomes  partings." 

"Yes,  yes;  of  course!" 

"Well,  Andrew,  please  God  weVe  done  the  right 
thing.  But  I  feel  very  anxious  and  fearful.  Tm  glad 
you  came,  Andrew.  I  feel  lonely  at  leaving  our 
child." 


The  position  that  Rose  occupied  was  one  of  those 
in  which  title  and  icy  courtesy  were  made  to  serve  in- 
stead of  fit  emolument.  The  title  served  the  purpose 
of  halving  the  ordinary  rate  of  remuneration  an  ordi- 
nary nurse  would  receive  if  she  bore  that  plain  ungar- 
nished  name.  It  served  another  purpose.  Whereas 
a  menial,  in  plain  fact  recognized  so,  has  her  recog- 
nized set  of  duties,  and  may  be  ordered  to  set  about 
them  with  all  conceivable  severity,  in  the  strict  circle 
so  circumscribed,  a  person  assuming  a  decorative  title, 
fares  far  otherwise.  She  is  not  to  be  ordered,  she  is 
to  be  requested,  with  as  much  of  courtesy  as  may 
serve;  and  therefore  functions  a  menial  would  scorn 
to  do  fall  to  her  lot.  So  Rose  found.  Being  observ- 
ant, and  not  untouched  with  humour,  she  began  to 
gauge  the  objectionable  nature  of  the  task  adminis- 
tered by  the  suavity  of  the  tone  employed.  "Kindly 
do  this,"  was  an  assertive  signal  of  joy  to  her  before 
ever  she  knew  the  labour  appointed.  "I  wonder,  Rose 
dear,  if  you  would  mind,"  in  silkiest  of  tongues,  caused 
her  heart  to  sink  within  her  in  gloomy  prognosis. 

One  privilege  of  the  lower  orders  she  had,  however; 
and  this  was  a  strict  parcelling-out  of  her  hours  of 
liberty.  Sunday  being  the  day  the  children  were  per- 
mitted to  breathe  the  expansive  atmosphere  of  the 


1 8  Broken  Arcs 

family  into  which  it  was  their  lot  to  be  born,  Rose  was 
set  at  liberty  after  the  midday  meal.  Liberty  it  was; 
yet  liberty  of  a  limited  order.  For  it  was  strictly  laid 
down  that  she  should  employ  this  liberty  in  visiting 
her  home.  Her  mother  had  enjoined  it,  and  her 
father  demanded  it,  in  parental  care.  But  her  em- 
ployers enforced  it  for  reasons  more  subtle  and  less 
unselfish.  In  addition  to  this  she  had  her  evening  a 
week,  which  grew  buxom  to  a  half-day  every  alternate 
week;  and,  gala  of  galas!  Pippa's  annual  festival 
became  a  monthly  holiday  with  her. 

Neither  fish  nor  fowl,  she  was  restless  in  her  new 
abode.  Her  weekly  visits  home,  too,  were  a  mixed 
event.  True,  she  longed  to  see  the  old  faces:  but 
whether  it  was  that  the  weekly  partings  were  troubled 
with  ancillary  pain,  or  that  her  young  restlessness 
drove  her  toward  that  subtle  thing  in  life  spelt  experi- 
ence, it  is  difficult  to  say.  More  probably  the  latter. 
Existence  had  grown  banal  save  for  the  heart  of  youth, 
and  a  certain  love  for  the  children  whose  charge  fell 
to  her  care.  A  strange  body  of  undeliberate  thought 
that  was  native  to  her  found  a  steadying  theme  of  an- 
ger in  the  systematic  neglect  of  these  children  under 
the  guise  and  gush  of  lavish  affection.  Here  there 
rolled  first  before  her  view  an  inchoate  mass  of  expe- 
rience for  her  to  strive  with  in  her  instinct  of  thought. 
Conscious  thought  she  had  not;  thought  become  aware 
of  itself,  and  rejoicing  in  its  activities,  was  foreign  to 
her:  yet  a  living  instinct  of  thought  she  had,  as  witness 
the  irrefragable  fact  that  chaos  became  ordered  into 
tenet  and  judgment;  and,  as  it  did  so,  restlessness  fell 
from  her,  and  health  ensued. 

Yet  this  was  sporadic.  Capable  of  turning  in  on 
herself,  she  was  human  withal,  and  demanded  com- 
panionship ;  if  not  that  rarer  thing  comradeship.     She 


Impulsions  19 

sought  it;  and  failed  to  find  It.  Here  and  there,  In 
the  weeks  that  passed,  she  struck  on  the  semblance  of 
It ;  which,  once  proved  but  a  semblance,  was  unostenta- 
tiously dropped — and  so  she  earned  a  name  for  caprice 
whose  nature  was  the  furthest  remove  possible  from 
caprice  and  fickleness. 

Thus  the  plough  went  up  and  down,  to  and  fro. 
She  became  like  a  rich  glebe  opening  Its  bosom  to  the 
grey  heavens  In  hunger  for  seed.  Any  seed;  darnel 
if  not  fair  wheat.  Activity  is  a  function  of  Nature. 
Therefore  activity,  to  earn  the  name,  must  be  natural. 
And  living  the  life  of  others  she  did  not  find  natural. 
The  soul  demands  its  Ego  If  only  to  deny  it.  Her 
soul  was  Insurgent  for  her  Ego;  but  it  was  not  yet. 
Her  being  cried  in  her  asking  her  to  be  somewhat  for 
itself:  gold  she  did  not  aspire  to;  nor  silver;  steel 
maybe,  or  good  cast  bronze;  but  a  figure;  if  all  else 
failed  a  figure  of  clay.  Instead  of  which  she  was  like 
water  poured  into  channels  that  others  had  digged, 
running  where  others  willed,  hot  or  cold  at  the  behest 
of  others. 

Yet  occasion  was  coming  on  the  relentless  foot  of 
Time. 

VI 

On  one  glorious  evening  she  was  returning  from 
home.  Dusk  was  setting  over  the  Sabbatic  calm  of 
Oldhamlet.  On  a  soft  vesper  breeze  a  gentle  mur- 
mur came  of  Innumerable  twittering  of  birds  merged 
Into  a  seraph's  far  whisper.  Over  the  noise  of  this 
came  the  note  of  a  throstle  that  communed  with  him- 
self at  the  close  of  day.  Another  gentler  sound 
floated  In  the  air,  working  itself  into  a  moving  ca- 
dence; and,  when  the  winds  moved  more  quickly  their 


20  Broken  Arcs 

pinions,  uttering  Itself  Into  a  hymn  coming  in  gusty 
measures  from  a  church  that,  from  the  platform  of 
the  station  of  Oldhamlet,  could  be  seen  nestling  amid 
trees  beyond  a  waving  field  of  corn.  Earth  seemed 
whispering  her  song  In  various  manner  of  utterance 
wherever  the  thought  turned.  Her  large  tender  hand 
had  smoothed  out  distinctions  of  utterance  with  the 
soft  erasure  of  peace.  Set  out  for  a  large  temple, 
she  In  pomp  of  peace  moved  through  her  ancient  rit- 
ual of  worship.  High  In  the  arched  splendour  of  the 
heavens  a  tracery  of  whimsical  clouds  lent  enchant- 
ment to  distance.  Shades  that  are  not  colours  but 
Infinite  suggestions  of  colour,  ruled  up  there.  Mauve, 
pink,  gold  that  was  cream,  cream  that  was  gold,  and 
opal,  faded  In  a  diminuendo;  mounting  again  In  fresh 
auxiliary  of  strength  to  the  fleshier  hues  of  amethyst 
and  amber. 

As  Rose  leant  on  the  balustrade  backing  the  crude 
platform  of  the  station,  her  gaze  was  toward  the  dis- 
tant church  amid  the  trees,  but  her  thoughts  were 
neither  there  nor  anywhere.  Initially  she  had  con- 
templated the  church  In  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and 
fretfulness.  Once  only  had  she  ventured  within  Its 
portals;  and  then  she  was  only  enabled  to  watch  Its 
pageant  from  the  shade  by  the  porch.  Seen  within, 
her  paternal  parent  had  Inevitably  heard  of  It;  and 
the  vials  of  his  wrath  were  on  this  towered  Iniquity. 
From  her  shadowed  aloofness  she  had  listened  with 
wonderment  and  something  of  distaste.  For  Inward 
rebellion  against  paternal  rule  will  not  suffice  to  eradi- 
cate the  subtleties  of  paternal  Impregnation  of  Ideas 
and  precepts. 

As  she  awaited  her  train  the  sound  and  cadence  of 
music  from  this  simple  yet  venerable  pile  brought  this 
experience  back  to  her,  and  she  w^s  collating  it  with 


Impulsions  2i 

her  present  more  open  mind.  From  this  she  had 
drifted  into  a  strange  mood.  The  peace  without  was 
not  unfelt  by  her.  Yet  it  combated  with  a  ruling  dis- 
quietude in  her  inmost  being.  A  large  wave  of  peace 
would  pass  through  the  agitated  waters  of  her  soul; 
calming  it  indeed,  yet  the  more  accentuating  the  tur- 
moil that  characterized  it  so  continually  now.  The 
peace  of  the  evening  was  a  mood  not  to  pass:  to  be 
drunk  up  by  the  soul,  and  be  for  ever  after  in  the  tis- 
sue and  woof  of  it.  Such  was  its  more  final  end.  At 
the  moment,  as  she  leant  on  the  weather-worn  wood- 
work, its  immediate  purpose  was  to  make  her  aware 
that  she  was  a  considerably  altered  being  for  these 
months  of  standing  much  alone.  Prematurely  disqui- 
etude had  come  on  her. 

Letting  her  thoughts  move  undeliberatively  she  had 
not  noticed  a  man  that  strode  the  platform  behind  her, 
eyeing  her  interestedly.  Obviously  she  was  the  centre 
of  his  attractions.  His  exercise  of  limb  had  her  for 
centre  of  attention  even  as  his  mind  swung  round  her 
for  pivot  of  thought.  From  heel  to  head-dress  his 
eye  took  her  in.  Golf-sticks  slung  over  his  shoulder 
told  his  day's  occupation  and  accounted  for  the  easy 
Norfolk  suit  he  was  clad  in.  To  the  medium  height 
of  men  he  added  a  loose  build  inclining  to  elegance. 
His  years  were  no  longer  youthful,  and  yet  he  was 
still  young.  The  premature  ripeness  of  easy  circum- 
stance was  his;  a  ripeness  unmeet  because  premature. 

Once  or  twice,  as  in  his  sentry-like  pacing  he  had 
approached  toward  her,  he  had  slackened  his  pace  as 
though  he  purposed  speaking  to  her.  Yet  he  had 
passed  on.  And  she,  looking  over  the  fields  of  young 
green  corn  bowed  gently  in  waves  of  whispering  wind, 
knew  nothing  of  this  perturbation  and  deliberation 
proceeding  behind  her. 


22  Broken  Arcs 

Soon  the  dying  whistle  of  the  train  approaching 
through  a  cutting  smote  on  her  ears,  and  she  gathered 
herself  together  In  preparedness.  Wishing  to  be  alone 
she  chose  an  empty  carriage.  Yet,  though  with  such 
care  she  chose  an  empty  carriage,  she  scarcely  noticed 
a  figure  that,  as  the  train  started  on  the  move,  flung 
open  the  door  and  entered  the  compartment.  Nor, 
when  within,  did  she  notice  what  manner  of  being  It 
was.  Thoughts  she  had  none;  It  were  an  Inaccuracy 
to  speak  of  thought  in  one  with  whom  deliberation 
was  so  unformulated.  For  her  mind  was  in  vacancy. 
And  when  a  voice  struck  across  her  vacancy  she  was 
startled. 

"Do  you  mind  If  I  smoke?" 

*'No!     Oh,  no,  no;  certainly  not!" 

The  aromatic  fumes  of  a  pleasant  cigar  floated 
across  her.  Presently  the  same  voice  said 
again — 

''Beautiful  evening,  isn't  it?" 

'Tes." 

Monosyllabic  shyness  put  out  a  hand  to  hold  him 
off,  knowing  no  other  reason  that  did  not  smack  of 
unsociability  and  roughness.  But  evidently  he  was 
not  disposed  to  be  so  baulked.  Moreover,  leisure  of 
opportunity  obviated  any  necessity  of  haste  on  his  part, 
or  consequent  rudeness. 

"Are  you  going  far  up  the  line,  may  I  ask?" 

"To  Ipstowe." 

"Are  you  really?     Why,  I'm  going  there." 

This  was  news  to  hear  neither  pleasant  nor  un- 
pleasant. 

"Do  you  live  at  Ipstowe?" 

"I_I_I  work  there." 

A  subtle  distinction  this,  pregnant  of  much  I  In 
fact,  It  was  the  revolution  of  her  mind  finding  expres* 


Impulsions  23' 

slon;  peeping  Its  head,  as  It  were,  tenderly  round 
the  corner. 

''Oh,  you  don't  live  there,  then?'* 

''Oh,  no!" 

Monosyllabic  shyness  was  certainly  a  difficulty  to  a 
moving  tenor  of  speech.  She  had  fled  Don  Juans  In 
the  street;  and  though  subsequent  thought  had  re- 
proached her  for  so  turning  aside  the  possibility  of  en- 
riching acquaintance,  experience  anyway,  yet  at  the 
next  occasion  shyness  had  again  impelled  a  similar 
action.  Her  soul  had  said  to  itself  that  if  such  ac- 
quaintance was  Illicit  it  was  arbitrarily  illicit;  and  that, 
however  it  might  be  so.  Its  possibility  of  subsequent 
development  need  not  fare  anyway  differently  from 
an  acquaintanceship  made  in  the  more  regular  chan- 
nels of  social  intercourse.  Besides,  what  social  inter- 
course had  she?  Nevertheless,  instinct  had  overcome 
reasoning,  and  she  had  escaped  the  toils  of  admiring 
youth. 

But  in  the  pent  compartment  of  a  railway  train 
flight  Is  a  somewhat  more  difficult  matter. 

He,  on  his  part,  finding  such  ragged  efforts  leading 
always  to  the  pit  of  futility,  settled  down  into  a  more 
systematic  attempt. 

"I  don't  remember  having  seen  you  ever  at  Ip- 
stowe." 

This  was  a  more  than  ordinarily  subtle  stroke;  far 
more  subtle  than  he  had  imagined.  For  it  induced 
her  to  raise  her  eyes  to  glance  along  the  length  of  the 
musty  seat  to  note  what  kind  of  a  man  he  was,  and 
whether  she  had  seen  or  noticed  him.  No,  she  did 
not  know  him;  but  as  she  looked  straight  In  his  eyes, 
a  strong  look  leapt  In  them  that  struck  fire  in  her.  She 
raised  no  flash  to  his  flash,  for  she  looked  away;  but 
a  quick  tremor  of  expectancy  ran  in  her  blood. 


24  Broken  Arcs 

**I  haven't  been  there  long,"  she  said. 

**No,  you  can't  have  been,  for  I  know  most  of  the 
people  there.  It's  not  a  large  place,  yoa  see.  But 
you  like  it,  I  suppose?" 

'*I  don't  know  anybody  there."  A  whimsical  smile 
died  along  her  lips  and  cheek. 

*'Yes,  that's  very  true,"  he  laughed  easily.  *'I 
don't  suppose  we'd  like  heaven  if  we  didn't  know  one 
or  two  people  there  we  liked.  And  yet  a  place  is 
something,  you  know,  isn't  it?" 

**I  suppose  it  is." 

The  conversation  was  becoming  easier  to  guide 
along  the  paths  of  smoothness.     And  ease  lent  ease. 

"But  you  must  get  to  know  some  people  there.  I'll 
introduce  you  if  you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me.  By 
the  way,  I  don't  know  your  name.     May  I  inquire?" 

"Rose  Foggetty,"  replied  Rose  simply,  yet  with  con- 
siderable perturbation  rustling  through  her  mind's 
serenity. 

"Mine  Is  Richard  Webber;  more  familiarly,  Dick. 
But  you'd  like  to  have  my  card?"  He  rifled  his  let- 
ter-case. "I'm  sorry,  I'm  out  of  them.  Still,  there 
it  is,  you  know,  Richard  Webber." 


VII 

Brown  evening  mantled  on  the  earth  as  the  train 
sped  on,  succeeding  to  dusky  night.  He  had  guided 
conversation  past  the  reefs  and  shoals  out  on  to  the 
broad  waters  beyond.  He  had  changed  his  position 
to  the  seat  opposite  her,  avoiding  the  seat  beside  her 
as  too  Jlkely  to  disturb.  Previously  he  had  had  but  a 
sidelong  aspect  of  her;  which  not  only  suggested  in- 
quisltiveness  in  its  too  frequent  privilege,  but  was  even 


Impulsions  25' 

unsatisfactory  on  its  own  merits.  But  now,  opposite 
her,  her  beauty  rose  before  him  like  a  breathing  in- 
cense. 

"I'm  very  glad  I  met  you,"  said  he  presently.  "Are 
you  glad  you  met  me?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  simply.  Despite  all  pertur- 
bation she  was  glad,  and  knew  it.  She  spoke  from 
instinct,  and  spoke  truly. 

The  simple  affirmative  checked  him.  It  thrilled 
him.  Coming  from  the  native  founts  of  simplicity  it 
spoke  to  the  highest  in  him,  and  his  highest  responded. 
The  lyre  of  his  soul  rang  to  its  dominant.  Chords  of 
emotion  swelled  through  his  being  sounding  the  great 
theme  of  purity  and  chivalry;  not  in  raucous  and 
fleshly  brass,  but  in  spiritual  strings  and  primitive 
purity  of  wood.  The  orchestration  purged  his  blood, 
and  lifted  him  nearer  the  angels.  The  irritation  of 
conquest  was  denied  him,  and  he  was  cleansed  with 
the  melodies  of  tenderness  and  fragrant  responsibility. 
Even  as  a  dove  of  the  chase  floating  humbly  to  the 
hand  of  the  pursuer  purifies  the  distemper  of  the  hunt 
and  sweetens  the  heat  of  the  blood  with  appeals  to 
trust  and  worthiness,  so  did  her  simple  avowal  sink 
the  base  in  him  and  lift  the  noble.  Not  a  hair  of  her 
head  would  come  to  harm  by  him,  he  swore,  whatever 
opportunities  lay  open  to  him.  Heaven  floated 
about  his  forehead  as  he  sat  looking  on  her,  as  she 
drooped  her  eyebrows  again  after  accompanying 
her  simple  affirmative  with  a  quiet  look  of  con- 
fidence. Speech  denied  him,  he  grappled  with  his 
nobility. 

Yes,  she  was  glad.  That  irrefragable  fact  spoke  in 
her  blood.  Was  it  so  ill  a  thing  to  rejoice  in  human 
comradeship?  Little  of  companionship  was  she  to 
receive  if  she  restricted  further  acquaintance  to  that 


26  'Broken  Arcs 

procured  by  present  acquaintance,  like  eddies  widening 
on  eddies.  So  her  strength  of  mind  rose  and  flung 
mental  disturbance  from  her.  It  did  not  resist  her;  it 
merely  clung. 

Silence  had  ensued  after  so  simple  a  baring  of  her- 
self. He  was  awed,  still  in  grapple  with  greatness 
coming  on  him,  and  she  had  hitherto  left  the  initiative 
of  conversation  with  him. 

*'I  shouldn't  have  said  that,"  she  said. 

*'Why  not?"  he  responded  stoutly;  "if  it*s  true." 

*'0f  course  Fm  glad  I  met  you." 

"Then  to  say  so  is  to  be  frank,  and  I  admire  you  for 
It." 

^I  know  one  shouldn't  say  such  things,"  she  went 
on.     "They're  apt  to  be  misunderstood." 

"I  don't  misunderstand  you,  I  can  assure  you  of 
that.  As  I  said,  I  very  much  admire  your  frankness. 
'And  I  do.     You  believe  that,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course,  if  you  say  so.  What  I  meant  was  that 
of  course  I  was  glad  to  meet  you.  One  is  always  glad 
of  companionship.  I  am.  And  I  was  lonely  just  then; 
I  think  I  had  got  the  dumps." 

As  a  gust  dulls  the  mirror  of  a  laughing  stretch  of 
water,  this  qualification  took  the  bright  hue  off  his  ela- 
tion, and  correspondingly  reduced  his  nobility.  The 
air  he  snuffed  with  the  nostrils  of  his  mind  smacked 
more  of  mortality  and  less  and  less  of  rareness  and 
spiritual  keenness. 

"Do  you  live  at  Oldhamlet?"  he  asked. 

"My  father  and  mother  do,"  she  responded. 

"That's  rather  a  subtle  distinction,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  she,  and  laughed  low.  It 
was  a  subtle  distinction,  yet  it  voiced  a  rising  instinct 
in  her. 

"You're  a  nomad,  I  see."     Blank  incomprehension 


Impulsions  27 

fronted  him.  "I  mean,  you  live  nowhere;  you're  a' 
wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

''Oh,  I  wish  I  were!"  she  ejaculated. 

*'Do  you?"   He  laughed  gaily  and  easily.    "Why?" 

"Oh,  I  should  like  to  go  about  and  travel." 

It  lay  quivering  on  his  lips  to  say,  "Oh,  we  may  one 
of  these  days,"  but  he  checked  it,  and  broke  the  thread 
of  freedom. 

"I  should  long  to  travel,  and  see  people  and  places," 
she  went  on.  "This  place  is  so  small,  and  the  people 
are  so — so — ^little.  But  to  see  things  that  are  differ- 
ent, and  people  that  are  different — oh,  I  should  love 
it!" 

"Would  you  settle  down  after?"  he  asked,  eyeing 
her  curiously. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Perhaps.  Anyhow,  that's 
what  I  should  like  now." 

"One  never  knows  what  mayn't  happen,"  he  said 
gnomically. 

The  far  suggestion,  begotten  in  him  by  sentimental- 
ity and  something  he  knew  not  what  and  dared  not 
face,  was  lost  on  her.  It  had  taken  wing  with  timid 
boldness,  hoping  to  alight  somewhere  In  her  emotions; 
but  finding  nothing  save  a  flood  of  incomprehension 
It  fluttered  back  to  him,  without  so  much  as  a  twig  or 
spray  of  success.     Meanwhile,  she  went  on — 

"You  see,  to  go  about  is  to  live.  And  I  want  to 
live.  I  didn't  know  quite  what  it  was  until  I 
started  talking.  Talking  does  clear  your  ideas, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Rather!     Yes!" 

"It  was  just  that  I  was  thinking  about  at  Oldham- 
let,  and  yet  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  thinking  about. 
I  didn't  seem  to  be  thinking  at  all,  you  know;  and  yet 
now  I  know  it  was  just  that  that  I  was  thinking  about 


28  Broken  'Arcs 

— that  I  wanted  to  live.     That's  why  I  should  lik'e  to 
travel.     But  I  don't  suppose  I  ever  shall." 

The  train  drew  in  at  Ipstowe.  As  he  helped  her 
out  on  to  the  platform  her  dark  beauty  shone  aloof 
and  strange  in  the  lights  of  the  station,  yet  tempting 
with  warm  humanity. 

"I  may  see  you  home,  I  trust?''  he  said  as  they  came 
out  into  the  station-yard. 

*'0h,  not  all  the  way,"  said  she,  overcome  again 
with  that  strange  fear  of  circumstance  and  occasion, 
that  circumstance  and  occasion  that  she  was  beginning 
to  hate  so  strenuously. 

"You  will  permit  me  part  of  the  way,  I  hope?" 

"Yes;  that  is,  if  you  want  to." 

"Of  course  I  want  to,"  said  he,  and  yet  strangely 
seemed  to  wish  to  avoid  the  publicity  of  main  streets. 
She  herself  wondered  at  this ;  yet  put  it  down  to  that 
tender  desire  for  darkness  that,  without  knowing  why, 
she  vaguely  ascribed  to  him  since  it  was  already  alive 
In  herself. 

Once  he  endeavoured  to  slip  his  arm  within  hers. 
Indeed,  he  succeeded,  and  for  a  breathless  few  min- 
utes quivered  with  the  soft  touch  of  her  arm  along  his. 
But  she  drew  timidly  away,  and  he  relinquished  his 
conquest.  Silence  ensued  after  this,  the  silence  of  de- 
licious timidity,  as  they  breathed  the  warm  air  of  trem- 
bling luxury,  half-fleshly,  half-spiritual.  She  not  less 
than  he;  but  on  her  part  it  was  with  deeper  emotion 
and  bigger  earnestness,  and  therefore  her  joy  trembled 
less,  and  was  less  dashed  with  colour. 

With  him  it  became  something  wilder  because  less 
natural  and  less  deeply  eloquent.  Yet  to  him  it  was  of 
the  essence  of  purity.  But  while  with  her  it  was  her 
opening  of  life,  and  therefore  came  with  large  impul- 
sion, to  him,  with  something  of  the  soilure  of  experi- 


Impulsions  29 

ence  on  him,  it  brought  strange  resolves  for  nobility. 
Hence  the  complexity  in  him,  as  contrasted  with  the 
simplicity  in  her.  Hence  also  the  reluctance  in  her 
contrasted  with  the  eagerness  In  him.  For  simplicity 
is  slow-footed;  but  complexity,  only  too  desirous  to  be 
quit  of  itself,  is  feverish  and  anxious  for  resolution. 

So  they  walked  through  the  quiet  streets  until  they 
arrived  within  a  short  distance  of  her  abode.  Here 
she  stopped,  thus  quietly  forbidding  him  to  escort  her 
any  farther.  He  took  her  unuttered  mandate  as  cava- 
liers should,  but  wished  to  know  when  they  were  to 
meet  again. 

*Tou  say  when,  and  TU  be  there,"  said  he. 

Here  the  Feminine  overcame  the  Female  In  her, 
with  a  short  swift  gush  not  insincere,  and  most  surely 
not  to  be  esteemed  lightly.  For  Instinct,  the  instinct 
of  ages  alive  in  her,  together  with  her  own  heaven-got 
wisdom,  spoke;  and  the  speakings  of  Instinct  are  the 
voice  of  the  Lord. 

"Oh,  do  you  think  we  should  meet  again?"  she  flut- 
tered. 

"Why  not?"  he  expostulated,  simulating  amaze- 
ment. And  as  silence  greeted  him,  he  continued: 
"What's  the  harm  in  It?"  A  further  silence.  "We 
met  innocently,  and  we  can  go  on  meeting  innocently, 
can't  we?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  breathed  softly. 

"Then  we  will  meet,"  he  said,  with  modulated  tri- 
umph In  his  voice.     "What  day?" 

"I  come  out  on  Wednesdays." 

"Wednesday,  then!     What  time?" 

"Half-past  six?"  she  queried,  looking  up  at  him 
timidly. 

"Done!     Half-past  six.     I'll  be  just  here." 

She  turned  away,  and  left  him. 


30  Broken  Arcs 

He  himself  had  won  this;  he  knew  it,  and  was 
elated.  A  dangerous  thing  and  Inevitable  is  the  power 
of  man  over  woman,  as  subtle,  subtler,  than  that  of 
woman  over  man. 

VIII 

Mr.  Richard  Webber,  or,  m  his  own  words, 
"more  familiarly,  Dick,"  resided  at  large  in  England. 
As  it  behooved  a  man  dating  an  allowance  to  the  fact 
of  his  birth,  and  the  liberty  that  accompanies  such  ad- 
ventitious good  fortune,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  spend- 
ing a  good  portion  of  his  time  in  London.  He  wore 
no  shackles  of  locality.  If  Scotland  won  his  fancy,  to 
Scotland  he  went.  Not  that  his  allowance  sufficed  for 
so  liberal  an  expenditure.  It  did  not.  But  the  gra- 
cious fortune  that  presided  at  his  birth  brought  him 
other  things  besides  an  allowance.  It  brought  him, 
for  Instance,  an  open  disposition — not  for  the  exten- 
sion of  hospitality,  but  for  the  acceptation  of  hospi- 
tality: a  not  inconsiderable  gift,  the  lack  of  which,  to- 
gether with  an  unreasonable  and  strictly  plebeian  thing 
called  pride,  stands  incontinently  in  the  way  of  prog- 
ress for  lower  orders  of  mankind.  It  brought  him, 
too,  the  friends  to  extend  this  hospitality;  or,  rather, 
to  speak  more  accurately,  friends  who,  seeing  he  was 
young,  single  and  of  gay  soul,  were  only  too  glad  to 
learn  that  he  proposed  visiting  them. 

Though  a  traveller  over  most  parts  of  England  at 
most  times  of  the  year,  two  places  chiefly  wpn  his  at- 
tention and  attendance.  London,  for  reasons  needing 
no  exposition;  and  Ipstowe,  for  reasons  more  subtle. 
In  fact,  his  chief  source  of  revenue  came  from  the 
vicinity  of  Ipstowe;  from  an  uncle,  who,  being  child- 
less, gave  him  largely  to  hope,  and  for  more  tangible 


Impulsions  3 1 

and  Immediate  satisfaction,  found  him  funds  for  per- 
sonal disbursement.  Ipstowe,  therefore,  claimed  his 
attention  with  some  regularity  during  the  months  of 
summer.  For  the  country  had  a  real  and  quite  un- 
slmulated  delight  for  him,  and  until  the  dun  hot  rays 
of  Summer  disenchanted  its  freshness  and  soiled  Its 
virginal  tenderness  of  hue,  it  was  his  habit  to  rejoice 
in  its  splendour. 

His  antecedent  pedigree  and  parentage  matter  lit- 
tle. His  father,  an  army  officer,  had  succumbed  with 
something  of  suddenness  to  the  terrors  of  an  Eastern 
climate.  His  mother,  sorely  stricken  by  the  blow,  had 
turned  to  him  with  more  than  ordinary  tenderness, 
finding  his  nurture  the  outlet  for  a  life  that  had  no 
other  zest.  A  kindly  and  paternal  government  had, 
according  to  its  canons  of  rectitude,  helped  to  eke  out 
the  slender  funds  with  which  she  found  herself  strait- 
ened after  this  calamity;  but  as  these  sufficed  not,  she 
had  turned  to  her  brother  for  assistance. 

His  response  had  been  of  a  characteristic  nature. 
The  logic  of  disbursing  funds  that?  gave  no  return  did 
not  strike  him.  Money  was  nothing,  as  he  was  care- 
ful to  explain  in  his  letter,  turning  to  philosophizing  as 
not  only  a  favourite  pursuit  of  his,  but  one  which,  as 
it  so  happened,  came  In  particularly  useful  as  a  worthy 
weapon  for  the  purposes  of  fencing :  money  was  noth- 
ing, its  only  value  was  in  what  it  achieved.  From  this 
it  followed,  by  a  process  of  logic  that  perplexed  Mrs. 
Webber,  that  the  achievement  merited  all  attention. 
The  argument  was  long,  and,  though  deft,  dry.  Its 
aim,  however,  was  not  unobvious.  For,  to  wring  the 
highest  achievement  out  of  the  money  certain  incal- 
culable forces  seemed  determined  to  wrest  from  him, 
he  proposed  that  she  should  come  over  and  housekeep 
for  him. 


32  Broken  Arcs 

Despite  all  tortuosities  of  character  he  was  kindly. 
He  needed  companionship  (his  very  crochetiness  was 
sign  of  this),  and  it  could  be  forgiven  him  if  he  em- 
ployed this  method  of  procuring  it.  Thus  the  con- 
nection with  Valley  Hall,  and  the  hereditary  funds  of 
Valley  Hall,  was  commenced.  When  her  son  was 
aged  fifteen  she  too  went  to  join  her  husband. 

So  Richard  lapsed  on  his  uncle's  attention.  And 
when  of  age  he  received  the  allowance  that  enabled 
him  to  mingle  inclination  with  leisure.  He  had  been 
a  disappointment  to  his  uncle  in  that  he  had  not  at- 
tempted a  career;  for  the  old  man,  like  so  many  when 
life  begins  to  slip  from  them,  wished  to  begin  living 
his  life  again  in  his  nephew.  Ambition,  not  unworthy 
ambition,  but  ambition  nevertheless,  seized  on  him, 
which  he  endeavoured  to  satisfy  by  proxy.  Richard, 
however,  had  failed  him,  and  so  had  baulked  himself 
of  those  larger  funds  that  might  have  been  his.  More- 
over, he  had  laid  himself  under  the  necessity  of  keep- 
ing a  cautious  eye  on  the  winds  of  the  old  man's  fa- 
vour. 

IX 

Hence  had  ensued  In  him  a  somewhat  complex 
character,  which,  again,  had  led  to  a  certain  indecision 
of  motive — an  indecision  arising  not  from  a  well- 
developed  width  of  range,  but  from  an  indistinct  shape 
of  disposition.  Whatever  he  chose  to  do  had  to  be 
referred  to  certain  standards  of  conduct  that  he  had 
come  to  adopt  in  his  subconscious  mind  as  the  domi- 
nant notes  of  his  well-being.  Even  wholly  worthy 
desires  took  often  an  unworthy  colour.  For  example, 
as  has  been  said,  he  was  very  truly  and  genuinely  fond 
of  the  country,  which  is  a  sign  of  health  in  any  man. 


Impulsions  33- 

Moreover,  he  was  particularly  fond  of  the  country  ^ 
around  Ipstowe.  Sussex  he  knew,  Kent  he  knew,  De- 
von, Derbyshire  and  Cumberland.  All  these,  as  coun- 
try, he  himself  preferred;  but  Ipstowe  and  Its  environ- 
ment was  to  him  the  place  of  his  childhood,  and  he 
loved  them  with  an  especial  tenderness,  which,  though 
no  rare  attribute  when  maturity  Is  shading  Into  age.  Is 
a  sufficiently  rare  virtue  In  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
eight.  Both  of  these  things  were  quite  genuine  and 
quite  true.  Either  would  have  been  sufficient  to  at- 
tract him  to  Ipstowe  during  the  months  when  summer 
marches  from  tenderness  to  pomp;  both  pulling  to- 
gether would  have  sufficed  to  make  It  an  annual  rule 
of  conduct.  Nevertheless,  the  fact  that  he  had  to  re- 
mind his  uncle  of  his  presence,  and,  more,  to  nurture 
his  uncle  Into  a  continual  mood  of  good  favour,  began 
to  be  effectual  In  making  him  think  that  his  visits  were 
for  this  purpose  and  no  other. 

In  fact,  beauty  began  to  wear  a  cynic  aspect.  Yet 
he  was  not  temperamentally  disposed  to  the  cynic  hu- 
mour, and  so  he  wore  his  complexity  lightly.  Still, 
It  worked  Its  will  In  him. 

He  himself  was  wholesome,  yet  he  was  the  proper 
subject  for  the  cynic.  But,  Inasmuch  as  he  was  the 
proper  subject  for  the  cynic,  corruptive  Influences  were 
at  work  In  him.  Occasions  for  greatness  that  had 
come  upon  him  he  had  worn  lightly;  not  the  lightness 
of  self-depreciation,  but  the  lightness  of  effortlessness; 
and  thus  they  had  failed  of  their  purpose  In  him.  Oc- 
casions for  purity  of  Intention  had  come ;  and  though 
to  these  he  had  nearly  always  responded,  yet  In  at- 
tributing his  course  of  action  to  less  worthy  Impulses 
he  had  failed,  here  too,  of  their  true  Intention. 

He  was  kindly,  and  laid  down  kindliness  and  cour- 
tesy as  an  Infallible  rule  of  human  action.     He  was 


34  Broken  Arcs 

not  always  kind  himself.  Yet  human  frailty  Is  a 
smaller  concern  If  a  great  principle  be  but  seen  clearly. 
In  many  of  his  actions  he  recognized  the  essential  kin- 
ship of  all  men.  This  sprang  from  his  kindliness,  and 
remained  In  evidence  despite  the  fact  that  he  was 
hedged  about  with  the  trite  conventions  of  those 
among  whom  he  moved. 

In  fact,  he  gave  the  impression  of  the  potentiality 
of  manliness  if  once  heroic  action  could  be  won  from 
him.  Not  only  had  heroic  action  not  been  won  from 
him  hitherto,  but  he  had  not  even  had  occasion  for  It. 
But  no  man's  life  passes  without  one  such  dramatic 
presentation,  and  his  was  to  be  no  exception. 


X 

That  Sunday  night  Rose  had  held  her  quick  pulse 
In  suspension  till  she  achieved  the  solitude  of  her  bed- 
room. In  fact,  suspense  had  been  achieved  otherwise 
than  by  the  operation  of  her  will,  and  In  a  way  that 
made  the  subsequent  rumination  of  her  thoughts  a 
more  poignant  matter  than  need  otherwise  have  been. 
For  Romance  Is  the  spirit's  revolt  against  a  dead-level 
of  experience;  it  Is  the  soul's  demand  for  Imperial 
colour  when  stricken  by  the  greys  of  monotony. 

Rose  had  come  from  a  sudden  rush  of  colour  into 
her  heaven,  and  her  especial  desire  was  to  dissect  her 
thoughts,  analyze  her  emotions,  and  discover  of  what 
nature  were  the  hues  whose  strange  advent  Into  her 
heaven  made  her  blood  run  so  curiously.  But,  imme- 
diately upon  her  entry,  swift  duties  were  thrust  upon 
her.  The  monotony  of  her  experience  took  strong 
hold  of  her  to  make  her  well  aware  of  its  existence 
and  its  power.     Therefore,  though  she  did  not  know 


Impulsions  35 

it,  she  was  made  the  more  disposed  to  read  the  signs 
of  the  aurora  favourably.  The  balance  of  reflection 
was  anew  rendered  the  less  possible  of  attainment  by 
an  uprush  of  revolt. 

Gazing  out  of  her  window  on  the  moonlit  night  her 
thoughts  were  bathed  in  pleasurable  excitement.  The 
night  was  clear;  a  soft  haze  clinging  about  the  grass 
and  trees  only  touching  with  a  pencil  of  softness  the 
cold  limning  of  the  moon.  As  the  houses  in  this  por- 
tion of  Ipstowe  lay  on  the  margin  of  the  country  pure, 
and  as  her  abode  in  particular  lay  among  its  farther- 
most, Rose  had  a  clear  view  away  to  the  east.  The 
fact  that  a  lengthy  garden  lay  between  her  and  the  far 
country  beyond  only  tutored  her  eye  to  distance  and 
charm. 

The  moon  at  full  floated  midway  between  distance 
and  zenith  through  a  sea  of  opal  blue.  Whiteness 
quivered  in  the  air,  and  even  the  long  shadows  of  the 
trees  on  the  lawn  were  paled  by  the  presence  of  par- 
ticles of  silver  light  that  floated  irresponsibly  through 
the  air,  softening  the  distinctions  of  light  and  shade. 
The  trees  were  struck  with  an  enchantment,  and, 
though  they  emitted  no  rustle  of  sound,  they  trembled 
against  the  shimmering  fields  beyond.  Near  bush  and 
far  brake  seemed  as  artificial  obstacles  over  which  the 
spirits  of  silver  leapt  in  light  and  sank  in  darkness. 
Over  the  grass  the  dew  was  already  settling  heavily. 
The  scene  seemed  like  an  artificial  fairy  playground  as 
the  beads  of  dew  glittered  In  the  pale  silver  gloryof  the 
Queen  of  Night;  as  though,  indeed,  some  fairy  crew, 
disturbed  at  their  elfin  merriment.  In  fleeing  had  cast 
off  their  bejewelled  gossamers  that  now  strewed  the 
lawn. 

Nature  has  her  appropriate  setting  for  the  scene  of 
man's  actions.     But  her  subtle  irony  is  reserved  for 


36  Broken  Arcs 

those  occasions  when  by  her  setting  she  sways  the 
moods  of  man,  and  so  fits  him  the  more  for  a  crisis 
of  events — fits  him  or  unfits  him.  The  enchantments 
of  the  scene  Rose  gazed  on  worked  In  with  the  very 
warp  and  woof  of  her  emotions,  and  threw  a  new 
glamour  over  the  unframed  river  of  hope  that  flushed 
her.  It  suspended  the  critical  faculty  in  her — which 
she  was  not  lacking  In,  though  it  took  rather  the  form 
of  perception  than  a*nalysis — and  It  swung  her  Into 
mysticism  of  desire. 

Thus  when  she  turned  to  her  bed  presently,  a  subtle 
change  had  passed  over  her,  a  quick,  eager  change  like 
the  pressing  of  a  kiss  on  the  lips  of  woman.  The 
Feminine  In  her — that  keen  rebirth  of  social  experi- 
ence and  human  complexity — had  purposed  a  circum- 
spect analysis.  But  a  child  of  quick  emotions  was 
she,  and  the  night  had  come  to  dispel  that.  For,  as 
presently  she  fell  asleep,  deliclousness  and  richness 
folded  her,  and  her  whole  being  looked  forward  to 
the  Wednesday  night's  meeting. 


XI 

It  was  not  otherwise  with  Richard  Webber.  Hith- 
erto he  had  been  approached  by  whatever  fairy 
wielded  Love's  wand  along  more  conventional  lines, 
and  therefore  his  castle  of  self  had  been  attacked  on 
a  side  for  which  he  was  readier  and  apter  for  defence. 
The  fact  that  he  had  hitherto  been  so  attacked  had 
not.  Indeed,  rendered  him  Impervious  to  such  attacks 
(he  was,  by  nature,  susceptible),  but  It  had  rendered 
the  results  of  such  attacks  of  shorter  and  shorter  dura- 
tion. The  waves  of  emotion  begot  by  the  impact  were 
wont  quietly  to  die  down  into  a  calm  sea. 


Impulsions  37 

But  this  attack  had  been  delivered  on  an  entirely 
different  quarter.  Nothing  of  the  conventional  was 
there  about  Rose.  Her  curious  directness  disarmed 
him,  while  her  simplicity  of  emotion  spoke  to  the  high- 
est In  him.  Her  native  directness  of  mind  well-nigh 
awed  him  at  moments,  while  her  curious  helplessness 
of  experience  touched  his  heart;  one  made  him  her 
Inferior  and  the  other  her  superior,  and  the  mixture 
of  emotion  was  delicious  If  confusing.  Her  beauty, 
too,  hovered  on  his  horizon  of  romance.  The  beauty 
that  shone  in  the  drawing-rooms  was  full  of  hard  glit- 
ter beside  this.  The  thought  of  fleshy  voluptuousness 
was  mingled  in  her  with  the  thought  of  spiritual 
transcendence. 

By  her,  politeness  had  been  touched  in  him  to  kind- 
liness and  the  eagerness  of  thoughtfulness,  while  com- 
mon courtesies  had  been  quickened  to  chivalry.  He 
already  set  up  a  standard  of  faithfulness  to  her  that 
was,  at  least,  curious.  For  when  he  failed  on  demand 
to  bring  up  before  his  eye  the  face  and  fashion  of  her, 
he  reproached  himself,  and  In  a  wild  effort  to  recap- 
ture the  picture  drove  It  further  and  further  away. 

Even  his  uncle  noticed  his  strangeness.  He  said  to 
him  at  dinner  on  the  Monday — 

"What's  all  the  talk  knocked  out  of  you  for?  Short 
of  cash?" 

"No.     Oh,  no." 

"Thought  perhaps  you  were;  and  were  afraid  to 
ask.     Because,  anyway,  your  behaviour's  damn'  rum." 

"Is  It?  Oh,  well,  It's  not  that.  Not  more  than 
usual,  that's  to  say.     I'm  always  that,  you  know." 

"H'm!  So  used  I  to  be.  Still,  there's  no  occasion 
for  It,  and  there's  no  reason  on  earth  that  I  can  see 
why  you  should  make  a  damn'  fool  of  yourself,  even 
if  It  did.     Anyway,  remind  me  In  the  morning,  and 


38  Broken  Arcs 

I'll  put  a  cheque  to  your  credit.  Only,  for  Heaven's 
sake,  Dick,  don't  mope,  whatever's  the  reason.  By 
the  way,  are  you  free  on  Wednesday?" 

"Wednesday?  Wednesday?"  Dick  endeavoured 
by  repetition  to  cover  the  fact  that  his  inmost  thought 
had  been  pierced,  although  he  knew  it  had  been  un- 
wittingly pierced.  "Yes,  I  think  I  am.  Why,  is  there 
anything  on  in  particular?" 

"Only  the  Trevishams  are  coming  over,  and  they 
always  rile  me." 

"I'm  sorry,  uncle,  but  I'm  afraid  I'm  engaged." 

"Oh,  very  well.     It's  no  very  great  odds." 


XII 

He  was  there  first.  He  had  been  pacing  up  and 
down  impatiently  for  some  time  before  a  flutter  at 
his  side  and  a  hand  on  his  arm  acquainted  him  of  her 
arrival. 

"I  thought  perhaps  you  weren't  coming,  and  I  was 
beginning  to  get  keenly  disappointed.  I  am  glad 
you've  come." 

"I'm  sorry  to  be  late,"  said  she,  "but  I  was  kept 
on  one  thing  or  another.  I  never  get  out  to  time. 
I'm  a  nurse-governess,  you  know."  She  had  deter- 
mined to  get  this  said  early,  for  his  complete  enlight- 
enment as  to  her  social  station;  and  she  said  it  with 
firm  mind  though  with  misgiving  blood. 

He  heard  her,  but  waived  the  picture  it  raised  from 
before  his  eyes.  Moreover,  his  sudden  rush  of  glad- 
ness and  ecstasy  at  the  renewed  sight  blotted  it  impe- 
riously away.  Such  distinctions  belonged  to  the  val- 
ley, and  he  stood  now  on  a  mountain. 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,  though,"  he  said    again. 


Impulsions  39 

"But  It's  too  unfair  of  them  to  keep  you.  You  have 
your  hours,  and  they  ought  to  recognize  them.'' 

"They  never  do.  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  be 
gone." 

She  had  indeed  thought  so,  and  in  consequence  had 
sped  to  the  appointed  place  of  meeting  with  more  of 
fear  In  her  heart  than  she  would  have  cared  to  con- 
fess frankly,  though  she  endeavoured  to  face  and  know 
herself  In  the  moments  between  ecstatic  submission  to 
the  new  tides  that  swept  through  her.  Her  Instincts 
were  always,  and  had  become,  now  particularly,  older 
than  her  emotions,  but  her  emotions  were  the  more 
potent. 

"Oh,  I  waited,"  said  he,  "because  I  felt  you  were 
not  of  that  kind  that  make  pledges  to  evade  them." 

She  looked  at  him  with  mild  surprise  and  wonder- 
ment at  his  meaning.  Being  alien  to  her  experience 
no  less  than  to  her  nature,  the  fact,  nay,  the  reason,  of 
such  faithlessness  failed  to  penetrate  her  conscious- 
ness. He,  quickly  perceiving  an  unconscious  yet  grave 
mishap  in  presenting  his  experience  In  Cupid's  more 
errant  and  tortuous  ways  before  so  frank  a  soul  as 
this,  quickly  said: 

"You  said  you  would  be  here,  therefore  I  knew  you 
would  be  here,  and  so  I  waited." 

They  had  turned  as  though  on  instinct,  and  were 
walking  down  towards  the  town.  But,  as  they  did 
so,  there  came  over  the  first  flush  of  his  ardour  and 
joy  the  quick  riveting  consciousness  that  he  was  known 
in  the  town.  "If  any  should  see  me,"  said  his  mind 
to  Itself,  "they  will  probably  think  strange  things  of 
her,"  so  putting  his  moving  reluctance  down  to  In- 
stinct and  chivalry.  Yet  the  better  man,  because  the 
honester  man,  in  him  arose,  and  he  faced  the  issue 
with  some  frankness,  that  he  did  not,  for  his  own  com- 


40  Broken  Arcs 

fort's  sake,  desire  to  be  seen  with  Rose  In  the  town. 

"Excuse  me,  but  don't  you  think,  as  It's  so  early 
yet,  that  we  might  go  out  into  the  country  first." 

"If  you  like,"  said  she. 


XIII 

The  difference  between  ridicule  and  the  fatefullest 
tragedy  Is  but  one  of  parallax.  A  step  this  way,  and 
that  which  threw  up  the  eyebrows  In  astonishment, 
sending  the  lips  leaping  to  and  fro  In  quick  risibility, 
becomes  one  of  dark  Interest.  It  Is  a  commonplace  to 
say  that  the  theme  of  the  comic  muse  Is  no  less  than 
the  theme  of  her  fatefuller  sister,  or  that  the  distinc- 
tion In  their  functions  Is  one  of  standpoint  and  pre- 
disposition. But  It  Is  a  somewhat  more  complex  con- 
sideration, and  one  not  so  easy  to  perceive,  that  for  a 
mood  that  would  wrest  the  mysteries  of  character  to 
be  set  with  a  flickering  lip  of  laughter,  or  to  have  the 
deep  seas  of  Its  mind  rippling  with  merriment.  Is  to 
be  preordained  to  failure.  It  Is  to  be  more:  It  Is  to 
gather  an  essential  misconception  of  the  thing  It  would 
depict. 

Similarly,  the  picture  of  two  healthy  beings  roaming 
country  lanes  as  the  sun  sank  low,  with  no  fixed  occu- 
pation, neither  one  feeling  quite  sure  of  the  other,  with 
a  conversation  that  In  consequence  flagged  too  con- 
tinually, and  drooped  Its  wing  Into  the  depths  of  un- 
easy silence,  is  one  that  the  contented  mind  views  with 
sound  hilarity.     It  tempts  laughter. 

Yet,  even  so,  at  that  time  they  were  developing 
themselves  into  attitudes  that  were  to  be  full  of  por- 
tent for  the  future.  He,  not  less  than  she,  though 
he  was  older  and  of  maturer  experience,  was  taking 


Impulsions  41 

his  shape,  and  this  shape,  like  all  such  shapes,  was  to 
be  the  start  of  a  development  along  those  lines.  He 
more  than  she,  for  she  was  taking  her  first  mould 
while  all  was  yet  plastic  about  her;  he,  however,  was 
something  past  the  plastic  stage,  though  temporarily 
made  more  malleable  by  the  wonder-surge  of  emotion 
she  had  Induced  In  him. 

He  had,  however,  overcome  his  initial  awkwardness 
by  the  adoption  of  a  kindly  and  painstaking  courtesy 
that  thrilled  her  Inexpressibly.  It  was  with  quiet  dig- 
nity he  aided  her  over  stiles;  and  once  when,  as  she 
came  over  a  stile  her  dress  caught,  displaying  a  fair 
proportion  of  comely  and  shapely  limb,  he  quickly, 
yet  not  so  quickly  as  to  be  ostentatiously,  turned  away 
while  she  adjusted  the  offending  garment.  Moreover, 
it  was  done  with  such  evident  kindness,  yet  withal  with 
such  dignity,  that  she  warmed  to  him  with  trust. 

As  they  roamed  quietly  beside  one  another,  while 
large  evening  spread  Its  plumes  above  their  heads,  he 
came  very  close  to  her,  and  unostentatiously  slipped 
his  arm  beneath  and  within  hers,  feeling  the  soft  touch 
of  her  warm  arm  thrill  through  his  blood.  It  Is  the 
tentative  temper  of  the  world  that  reads  voluptuous- 
ness as  in  Itself  an  evil  thing.  It  was  no  evil  thing 
to  him  then.  There  surged  through  his  nerves  an 
overwhelming  tenderness  as  he  felt  his  arm  stiffened 
between  her  side  and  her  arm  with  the  quick  convul- 
sive tremor  of  swift  emotion  In  her.  Neither  of  them 
looked  at  the  other  as  his  fingers  crept  down  her  arm 
toward  her  hand,  which,  when  it  reached.  It  took  into 
possession. 

To  her  the  Intensity  of  emotion  was  almost  uncon- 
trollable. She  knew  not  if  she  walked  on  earth  or 
air.  Her  blood  beat  confused  anthems  In  her  ears. 
Her  eyes  dismissed  their  functions,  and  painted  vast 


\ 


42  Broken  Arcs 

Images  of  richest  colour  before  her.  The  mysteries 
of  ages  ran  In  her  veins.  She  could  have  clung  to 
him  convulsively  In  a  wild,  wild  ecstasy  of  fierce  joy, 
save  that  some  memory  of  an  elder  self,  a  self  that 
had  not  known  this  wild  riot  of  uncontrollable  desire 
surging  In  her,  forbade  so  abandoned  an  evidence  of 
her  emotion.  It  was,  therefore,  to  relieve  a  mood 
that  bade  fair  to  whelm  and  conquer  all  control,  that 
she  let  droop  her  arm,  so  relinquishing  possession  of 
his. 

He  construed  this  as  apathy  on  her  part,  and  felt 
puzzled  at  the  ways  of  woman,  not  knowing  how  to 
construe  this  In  the  light  of  her  undeniable  emotion  of 
but  a  few  moments  back. 

"May  I  not  take  your  arm?"  he  asked,  looking 
down  at  the  rich  hues  tinting  the  pure  profile  of  her 
face. 

"If  you  like,''  she  whispered.  Inconsequentially,  as 
it  seemed  to  him. 

'Tou  wish  me  to?"  he  asked,  with  a  slight  feeling 
of  mastery. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  back,  softlier  than  before. 

Emboldened  by  this.  Instead  of  taking  her  arm,  he 
slipped  his  arm  gently  about  her  waist,  and  she  sur- 
rendered herself  to  him.  He  held  her  close  to  him  as 
they  stumbled  rather  than  walked  forward.  Pres- 
ently he  stopped,  and,  folding  her  In  his  arms,  stoop- 
ing slightly,  kissed  her  averted  face.  She  shrank 
away  convulsively.  The  touch  of  lips  was  purest  joy 
to  him,  but  It  well-nigh  maddened  her.  She  trembled 
In  his  arms.  He  knew  not  why  she  trembled,  but  as 
she  had  not  forbidden  him,  he  kissed  her  again,  more 
passionately.  Then  with  a  quick  motion  she  swung 
on  him,  and,  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  kissed 
him  wildly  and  convulsively.     Neither  spoke. 


Impulsions  43 

Evening  was  turned  almost  to  twilight  ere  they 
separated.  The  air  was  warm  and  rich.  In  the  west, 
through  the  aurora  thrown  up  by  the  departing  sun, 
Venus  struggled  through  with  light  ray  of  silver; 
while,  fronting  her  In  the  opposite  heavens,  a  large 
rounded  moon  swam  softly  up  through  the  darkening 
sky.  Peace  was  over  the  earth  as,  with  his  arm  about 
her,  they  turned  to  the  town  again. 

^  XIV 

IpSTOWE  threw  out  rich  lights  before  them  as  they 
made  their  way  through  the  darkened  hedgerows. 
The  air  glowed  golden  In  the  night  sky,  showing 
strangely  beside  the  silver  glory  of  the  moon  that 
floated  to  the  right  of  the  town  as  they  trod  towards 
it.  Strangely,  and  somewhat  murkily  too.  The  silver 
splendour  flowing  from  an  opal  sky  over  fields  that 
lay  in  pale  blue  slumber,  made  the  red  gold  of  the 
town  lights,  that  had  otherwise  seemed  sumptuous 
enough,  shine  like  faded  tinsel.  Nor  was  this  dimin- 
ished In  any  way.  Increased  rather,  by  the  dark  blocks 
of  the  nearer  houses  that  shut  out  the  town  lights  in 
spaces  with  masses  of  chaotic  gloom.  To  right  and 
left  of  them,  as  they  floated  up  by  the  nearer  hedge- 
row, purity  and  garlshness  fought  their  fight  out  in  the 
heavenly  horizon. 

Half-consclously  they  recked  of  this  (he  more  than 
she)  in  the  swelling  tide  of  their  emotions.  They  had 
found  speech  now,  and  were  twittering  a  first  soft  in- 
consequential chorus. 

"Dear,  that  was  the  richest  joy  of  my  life,"  said 
he,  vainly  seeking  to  shake  off  consciousness,  as  it  was 
obvious  the  burning  soul  beside  him  had  done. 

''Richard,"  whispered  she,  eschewing  the  "Dick." 


44  Broken  Arcs 

"Rose,"  he  replied,  as  she  clung  closer  to  him. 

Ecstasy  waved  over  them  as  again  they  floated  the 
seas  of  silence  and  mystery.  He  was  the  first  to  re- 
cover speech. 

*'Who  would  think,"  said  he,  "we  had  met  only  so 
short  a  time?" 

"Dearest  I"  she  whispered,  afraid  of  her  voice.  She 
would  not  be  reminded  of  it. 

"It  seems  as  if  we  had  always  known  each  other, 
doesn't  it?"  He  kissed  her  as  he  spoke,  which  fore- 
stalled a  reply  from  her,  other  than  the  rich  one  of 
answering  lips. 

"Yet  you  do  love  me,  don't  you?"  The  "yet"  had 
a  cause  in  his  mind  that  was  not  in  hers. 

"Oh,  Richard,  yes,"  she  said,  and  with  a  sudden 
advent  of  boldness  she  turned  on  him  for  an  equal 
kiss. 

He  was  tempting  her  forth  from  her  fastnesses  now; 
and  though  slowly,  yet  it  was  in  native  strength  she 
came. 

"It  seems  strange,  doesn't  it?  But  it's  true,"  he 
added. 

"Dear!" 

"Oh,  Rose,  Rose  I"  he  called,  in  joy  of  her  name. 

"Richard!"  she  whispered  back. 

It  thrilled  him  that  she  found  a  new  name  to  call 
him  by:  it  was  a  token  to  him  of  a  new  order  of 
things;  his  fancy,  on  a  quick  flash,  took  it  for  a  calling 
of  realities  by  their  true  appellations,  which,  he  swore, 
was  henceforth  to  be  the  law  for  him.  Only  on  the 
great  events  of  his  life  had  he  been  called  Richard: 
yet  then  it  was  formal  pomp;  now  pomp  was  thrilled 
to  reality. 

They  passed  then  to  that  state  when  words  were 
no  more  heeded  for  the  meanings  they  gave,  but  were 


Impulsions  45 

of  value  only  inasmuch  as  they  gave  each  the  oppor- 
tunity of  hearing  the  other  in  sound  whose  intonation 
was  all.  Ejaculations  had  sufficed,  so  they  were 
musical.  Their  souls  were  finding  voice  in  struggling 
chords  and  notes  of  broken  music.  The  theme  was  a 
theme  for  music,  having  passed  beyond  the  bounds  of 
articulate  meaning. 

^'Darling!'* 

"Dearest!" 

"Oh,  how  I  love  you!" 

"Do  you?" 

"Infinitely." 

"You  know  I  do." 

"I'm  proud  to  know  you  do." 

"Pm  very,  very  happy." 

"I  never  knew  love  till  now." 

"Dearest." 

"You  make  me  my  real  true  self." 

"Oh,  Richard!" 

It  was  he  who  had  started,  though  for  a  while  their 
parts  might  have  been  inverted  so  far  had  they  merged 
identity.  Yet  he  struggled  to  self-consciousness 
sooner  than  she. 

With  infinite  slowness  they  had  come  nearer  the 
town,  till  now  it  was  almost  upon  them.  Its  lights 
dispelled  the  mystic  spell  that  had  awed  their  souls, 
though  they  still  clung  to  ecstasy. 

Taking  his  arm  from  about  her  waist  he  passed  it 
under  hers  as  they  trod  the  main  street  under  the  maze 
of  lights  that  dazzled  them.  Some  five  minutes  down 
on  the  right  hand  would  they  find  the  street  that  would 
take  them  to  the  place  of  parting,  and  so  thrilled  was 
he  that  he  forgot  his  earlier  reluctance  to  the  publicity 
of  this  main  street.  Indeed,  he  trod  firmly,  with  his 
hand  over  hers,  she  as  close  to  his  side  as  the  limits 


46  Broken  Arcs 

of  walking  permitted.  His  thoughts  were  of  her,  and 
if  somewhat  of  himself  too,  then  only  in  his  relation 
to  her.  A  new  life  flooded  his  veins,  and  rocked  his 
brain  in  ecstasy. 

Presently,  however,  he  had  the  consciousness  of 
curious  eyes  regarding  him,  and  turning  in  that  direc- 
tion he  saw  an  acquaintance  of  his  in  the  town  taking 
off  his  hat  as  he  passed  them  close.  He  plucked  off 
his  own  in  response. 

Walking  on,  discomfort  and  disturbance  ruled  in 
him.  Imperceptibly  he  loosed  her  hand,  and  soon 
slid  his  arm  out  of  hers  for  an  ostensible  waving  of 
his  pocket  silk,  yet  did  not  return  it  to  its  position. 
She,  in  full  tide  of  joy,  swayed  to  her  deepest  of  emo- 
tion, made  response  by  quickly  slipping  her  arm  in 
his;  which  caused  disturbance  and  ecstasy  to  mingle 
a  strange  combat  in  him. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  for  long.  For  soon  they 
turned  into  the  seclusion  of  side  streets.  Whereat  he 
was  relieved;  he  knew  he  was  relieved,  yet  had  not 
so  far  lapsed  from  his  splendour  of  emotion  not  to 
feel  somewhat  ashamed  of  his  relief.  She  too  had 
come  down  from  the  heights,  but  to  no  bathos.  Her 
whole  being  swung  wide  to  embrace  the  largeness  of 
life  she  had  found,  and  to  turn  it  into  the  full  joy  of 
experience  and  simplicity. 

Then  came  the  moments  of  parting.  And  as  she 
sped  up  the  street  through  the  darkness,  with  her  warm 
kiss  living  on  his  lips,  he  knew  her,  and  blest  her,  for 
a  pure,  lovely  soul. 

XV 

Having  lost  sight  of  her,  he  turned,  and,  with  con- 
fused emotions,  made  back  again  towards  the  main 


Impulsions  47 

street.  By  that  way  lay  his  journey  home.  Passion 
knows  not  Time,  and  mocks  at  its  effluxion.  As  with 
her,  so  with  him,  it  seemed  mockery  to  say  that  they 
had  known  each  other  so  short  a  time.  Yet  it  was 
her  passion  that  had  so  transmuted  occasion.  Had 
his  initial  kiss  fallen  on  a  cheek  accustomed  to  such 
pressure  of  lips,  valuing  such  tribute  as  a  byway  of  ex- 
perience, a  dalliance  with  furtive  pleasure  had  ensued, 
and  this  strange  ruling  aside  of  the  common  bounda- 
ries of  Time  had  not  resulted.  But  Passion,  a  vir- 
ginal, pure,  and  lovely  passion,  had  greeted  him,  which 
by  its  own  strength  had  lifted  him  to  something  of 
loftiness  of  desire. 

Yet,  strangely  it  was  rather  he  than  she  who  had 
lost  the  reckoning  of  Time.  She  knew,  somewhere  in 
the  forefront  of  her  mind,  that  their  knowledge  of 
each  other  had  been  for  but  a  short  time,  yet  found 
nothing  strange  or  bewildering  in  it.  That  they  had 
met,  and  loved,  was  to  her  the  supreme  fact.  And 
that  she  felt  she  had  ever  known  him,  despite  so  short 
an  acquaintance,  was  only  as  it  should  be. 

He,  however,  was  definitely  out  of  his  reckoning 
both  as  to  events  and  time.  He  was  bewildered  by 
his  sudden  and  complete  knowledge  of  her.  Over- 
joyed and  thrilled,  he  was  yet  unable  to  realize  this 
complete  unveiling  of  soul  that  had  taken  place. 

Thus  confused  and  thrilled,  flushed  with  a  wild  ten- 
derness, yet  unable  to  locate  himself,  he  turned  from 
the  seclusion  of  side  streets,  and  made  his  way  up 
through  the  blaze  of  lights,  that  diminished  as  the 
night  wore  on,  towards  the  countryside  that  lay  far- 
thest removed  from  the  lanes  that  had  late  been  his 
holy  of  holies,  tender  with  memory. 

As  he  went  on,  a  voice  sang  in  his  ear — 

•*Hullo,  Webber  I'» 


48  Broken  Arcs 

Facing  abcfut  he  saw  the  smiling  face  that  had  dis- 
composed him  earlier  in  the  evening. 

"Hullo,  you!"  he  said,  with  forced  jocularity,  cover- 
ing a  swift  awkwardness. 

"Didn't  I  catch  you  courting  a  while  back?'*  went 
on  his  awkward  interlocutor,  perceiving  the  discomfort 
and  rejoicing  infinitely  in  it.     "Who's  the  party?" 

Richard  looked  discomposed  enough,  and  a  quick 
flush  came  into  his  cheek;  but  he  endeavoured,  in  a 
moment  of  folly,  to  turn  this  into  an  appearance  of 
perplexity.  At  this  the  other  set  up  a  soft  laugh,  gen- 
tle, modulated  and  mellow,  like  a  caress  of  torture. 

"Oh,  like  that,  is  it?"  said  he.  "Well,  old  chap, 
I  wish  you  luck." 

"Hang  it,  Ogden,  you've  a  horrible  mind,  you 
know  I"  Richard  broke  out,  endeavouring  to  rescue 
the  situation  and  cut  his  interlocutor  short  by  a  show 
of  brusqueness. 

"I?  Well,  I  like  that."  Ogden  simulated  extreme 
astonishment. 

"Well,  so  you  have." 

Ogden  flung  his  eyes  heavenward,  and,  with  hand 
extended  in  expostulation,  said — 

"You  heavens,  hear  and  judge  between  us  I  I  wish 
this  man  all  imaginable  luck  in  his  love,  and  he  inter- 
prets me  with  evil  intent.  Who  is  it  has  the  evil 
mind?" 

Ogden's  gay  manner,  and  his  mock  conjuring, 
brought  good  humour  with  a  swift  rush  upon  Richard, 
and  he  broke  in  on  the  invocation. 

"Drop  that  I  It's  because  I  know  the  frame  of 
your  mind,  that  I  interpret  you  evilly.  But  let's  quit 
the  subject  I" 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't  I  I  wish  to  know,  my  dear  sir, 
is  this  a  flamme  or  the  belle  idealef* 


Impulsions  49 

"What's  It  got  to  do  with  you,  may  I  ask?" 
*'0h,  since  you  put  It  that  way,  nothing!   StlU- 


The  shrug  of  his  shoulders  was  clear  enough  proof 
to  Richard  that  the  other  was  drawing  his  own  con- 
clusions. To  have  been  assailed  in  this  way  before 
having  even  so  much  as  taken  stock  of  himself  and 
his  emotions,  was  disconcerting.  To  have  put  him  at 
a  disadvantage  In  his  replies,  to  have  made  him  cut  a 
sorry  figure  with  one  that  regarded  him  as  Immaculate 
gaiety  and  courtesy,  was  the  least  of  the  trouble,  for  It 
brought  havoc  In  the  state  of  his  soul.  It  set  worldly 
position  with  a  swift  and  unerring  hand  beside  the  new 
emotion  that  had  stirred  purely  within  him.  He 
sought  for  dry  land  in  a  sea  of  chaos,  but  could  find 
nowhere  to  set  his  feet  on  and  stand  firm.  Yet  it  was 
incumbent  on  him  to  say  something.  If  only  to  unsettle 
the  conviction  his  friend  was  assuming.  "What  this 
conviction  was  he  could  not  say.  Yet,  whatever  It 
was,  It  could  not  fail  to  be  awkward.  His  soul  re- 
volted from  an  evil  interpretation,  yet  his  Instinct  no 
less  shrank  from  any  Interpretation  that  compromised 
him  socially. 

Regaining  possession  of  himself  with  a  firm  energy 
of  will  he  said  therefore — 

"My  dear  old  chap,  what  blather  this  all  Is!  Just 
because  you  happen  to  see  me  with  a  friend  of  mine 
you  go  sprinting  off  to  conclusions.  It's  an  Idiotic 
thing  to  do." 

This  was  said  firmly  and  quietly,  and  the  tone  and 
manner  of  saying  It  was  a  sure  signal  flung  out  to  Og- 
den  that  the  subject  was  not  to  be  persisted  In.  Gen- 
tleman to  gentleman,  this  signal  was  not  to  be  disre- 
garded. Yet  though  the  signal  of  convention  flut- 
tered in  the  wind  imperiously,  the  man  In  Ogden  was 
urgent  In  him.     So  he  merely  laughed  again,  the  soft 


'50  Broken  Arcs 

silvery  laughter  of  non-conviction,  and  with  a  too  ob- 
viously abrupt  turn  he  said — 

"Ah,  yes  I  Rum  shape  those  stars  have  I"  He  re- 
garded Cassiopeia's  chair. 

They  trod  in  silence  awhile,  then  separated. 

Late  into  that  night  Richard  lay  and  tossed,  seeking 
to  co-ordinate  his  experiences,  and  find  dry  earth  of 
decision.     But  it  defied  him. 


XVI 

Mother-wit  has  achieved  the  notoriety  of  an  ad- 
age. Apothegm  has  fastened  on  it  knowing  it  an 
inalienable  portion  of  humanity.  Let  it  not  be  thought, 
however,  that  mother-wit  is  one  with  wisdom.  In- 
deed, it  is  too  often  the  destroyer  of  wisdom.  Wis- 
dom may  work  out  her  own  ends  in  darkness.  It  may 
be  content  to  strike  through  twists  and  torsions, 
scarcely  perceiving  them,  to  a  far  goal  that  shines 
clearly  beyond  the  gloom.  But  mother-wit  must  needs 
perceive  the  twists  and  torsions;  may,  indeed,  per- 
ceive them  so  clearly  as  to  obscure  all  eventual  goals. 
It,  too  often,  will  seek  to  make  straight  the  twists  and 
remedy  the  torsions,  and  so  destroy  all  striving  ob- 
scuring, if  not  obviating,  the  goal.  Wisdom  is  com- 
pact of  patience ;  mother-wit  is  too  often  overcome  by 
irritability  and  impatience.  Let  them  be  wed  in  har- 
mony, and  wisdom  earns  her  crown  of  joy. 

They  had  not  been  so  wed  in  Mary  Foggetty.  Her 
quick  mother-wit  had  not  failed  to  note  Rose's  gleam- 
ing eye  and  joyous  manner.  It  rejoiced  her;  and  at 
the  same  time  disturbed  her,  for  it  meant  that  some- 
thing had  come  into  her  life  that  the  mother  was 
stranger  to.     She  waited  to  learn;  and  only  learnt  in- 


Impulsions  5 1. 

stead  that  Rose's  visit  this  Sunday  was  to  be  somewhat 
curtailed.  Mary  knew  not  whether  or  not  to  connect 
the  radiant  manner  and  the  curtailed  visit;  but  waited 
again.  It  was  not  easy  to  wait;  the  more  so  as  Rose's 
manner  of  announcing  the  curtailed  visit  was  flushed 
and,  it  must  be  admitted,  not  altogether  frank. 

Frankness  is  an  easy  thing  to  stipulate ;  yet  the  wise 
know  that  it  is  dependent  on  condition.  Perfect 
frankness  is  dependent  on  perfect  sympathy;  and  the 
first  thing  the  human  soul  is  doomed  to  discover  In  the 
toils  of  experience  is  that  sympathy  is  a  thing  that 
falls  from  the  blue  heavens;  it  is  accountable  to  none, 
and  mocks  at  the  bonds  of  consanguinity.  Love  may 
exist  without  sympathy;  and  it  may  even  chance  that 
sympathy  may  exist  without  love. 

Rose  loved  her  mother;  yet  her  own  instinctive  rec- 
ognition of  facts  would  have  denied  the  possibility 
of  deluding  herself  with  any  fancy  that  sympathy  exr 
isted  between  them.  For  one  thing  she  was  achieving 
her  own  conscience;  that  is  to  say,  her  divine  instinct 
of  conscience  was  codifying  its  own  experience,  where- 
as her  mother's  had  been  codified  long  since  in  a  far 
different  field.  Her  conscience  approved  her  love  for 
Richard,  because  her  love  trusted  him  Infallibly;  but 
she  knew  her  mother's  conscience  would  not  have 
approved,  trust  or  no  trust.  She  recognized,  too, 
that  her  mother  was  only  human  In  erecting  her  con- 
science as  the  standard  of  all  possible  consciences. 
Wisdom  dictated,  therefore,  that  a  collision  be 
avoided. 

Had  Mary  recognized  this,  Rose  might  have  been 
saved  evasion.  But  she,  poor  soul !  was  all  f retfulness 
to  know  how  her  seedling  fared,  and  must  need  pluck 
it  up  by  the  root  to  discover.  She  waited  awhile ;  and 
as  Information  was  not  forthcoming,  plied  Rose  with 


\£2  Broken  Arcs 

questions.  She  started  subtly;  and  the  field  was  clear, 
for  Andrew  employed  his  Sunday  afternoons  by  lead- 
ing small  rustic  Intelligences  through  the  labyrinths  of 
prophecy,  his  method  being  not  to  avoid  the  heavy 
terminology  this  necessarily  Included,  but  to  elucidate 
as  he  went  forward  by  baby  phrases  in  involved  syn- 
tax; his  whole  performance  bearing  a  marked  resem- 
blance to  an  elephant  attempting  a  schottlsche. 

Mary  endeavoured  to  discover  what  she  wanted  by 
detailed  curiosity  as  to  Rose's  daily  happenings,  and 
failing  to  learn  anything  more  of  them  than  she  had 
hitherto  known,  she  turned  away  for  a  swift  flank  at- 
tack.    She  leapt  up  with  a  bounce  and  said — 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  must  be  thinking  of  getting  tea 
ready." 

"But  why  so  early,  mother?" 

"Why,  Rose,  you  said  you  would  have  to  be  going 
early,  and  so  you  will  want  tea  early,  won't  you?" 

"No,  mother,  I'm  not  going  so  early  as  that.  It 
won't  affect  tea-time,  anyway." 

"Well,  no,  I  suppose  it  won't."  As  she  spoke  she 
flicked  imaginary  dust  off  a  glass  vase  with  her  hand- 
kerchief so  as  to  lend  inconsequence  to  her  words. 
"But  you  didn't  say  who  you  were  going  to  meet, 
Rose." 

"Meet,  mother?"  Rose  sniffed  danger,  and  fenced 
to  avoid  falsehood. 

"Yes,  dear,  meet.  I  suppose  you're  going  to  meet 
somebody." 

"Of  course  I  am."     She  let  the  words  ring  freely. 

"You  didn't  say  who.  Rose."  Mary  lifted  her  eyes 
and  looked  injuredly  at  her  daughter  for  a  moment, 
and  then  drooped  them  again  with  a  resigned  pressure 
of  her  lips. 

"Mother,  don't  be  silly,"  said  Rose,  with  a  half- 


Impulsions  53. 

pout,  half-tender  regard,  seeking  to  meet  injury  with 
expostulation.  "If  I  told  you,  how  much  wiser  would 
you  be?" 

"You  don*t  trust  me  as  you  should,  Rose." 

"Of  course  I  trust  you,  mother." 

"No,  you  don't,  dear." 

Rose  came  over  and  laid  her  hand  on  her  mother's 
shoulder,  saying  in  a  not  too  happy  raillery — 

"Why,  look,  mother,  suppose  I  said  Molly  Maguire, 
or  Janey  Pickwick,  or  any  other  name,  why,  you 
wouldn't  even  know  if  they  existed  or  not." 

"I  should  rely  on  you  telling  me  the  truth,  Rose." 

This  was  a  thrust  that  robbed  Rose  of  reply;  and 
Mary  might  have  followed  with  effect,  but  just  then 
Andrew  came  in  humming  a  sprightly  children's  hymn 
at  largo  time,  to  the  destruction  of  all  its  would-be 
gaiety;  to  which  destruction  he  further  assisted  by  ren- 
dering it  in  sepulchral  tones. 

"Rose  has  to  be  going  early  to-day."  Mary  always 
fell  into  the  Suffolk  "song"  if  she  had  to  speak  to  any 
one  at  a  further  remove  than  mere  conversation. 

"Oh,"  said  Andrew  carelessly,  ceasing  his  unearthly 
music.     "Where  is  she  going?" 

"She  doesn't  say." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Rose?" 

"Oh,  I  never  heard  such  a  fuss  in  my  life  over  so 
small  a  thing.  Only  to  meet  a  friend  of  mine.  It's 
the  same  friend  I  meet  every  Thursday."  This  was 
floating  perilously  near  deliberate  falsehood,  for  she 
had  often  spoken  of  a  girl  she  used  sometimes  to  meet. 
But  she  shrank  from  a  straight  falsehood  to  conclude 
the  matter;  whereas  they  (her  mother  as  yet,  rather) 
seemed  intent  on  pressing  her  to  falsehood. 

"A  nice  girl,  I  hope,  Rose,"  said  Andrew,  in  dis- 
missal of  the  matter. 


54  Broken  Arcs 

"Very  nice." 

"Will  you  ask  her  to  tea  here  some  Sunday?'*  asked 
Mary. 

*'I  may,"  replied  Rose. 

Mary  left  the  matter;  but  It  was  too  evident  to  Rose 
that  her  mother  was  disturbed  and  suspicious,  and  this 
ruffled  the  clear  waters  of  her  joy.  No  more  was  said 
on  the  matter;  but  her  mother's  avoidance  of  the  sub- 
ject was  so  marked  and  obvious  that  to  poor  Rose  an 
open  discussion  had  been  less  ominous. 


XVII 

It  was  lamentable  that  Mary  should  have  levelled 
so  shrewd  an  attack  on  Rose,  for  It  drove  her  to  fur- 
tlveness.  Had  Mary  discovered  that  Rose  had  found 
herself  a  lover,  learning  with  It  the  distinction  in  social 
degree  that  existed  between  them,  she  would  have  for- 
bad the  whole  matter  In  peremptory  fashion,  while 
Andrew's  heavy  artillery  would  have  brought  up  crush- 
ing support.  Rose  was  scarcely  the  girl  to  have  bowed 
meekly  to  such  an  attack.  All  that  was  best  and 
worthy  In  her  would  have  stood  up  in  faithfulness  to 
her  lover.  She  would  snap  all  lighter  bonds,  and  own 
as  resistless  this  new  and  heaven-got  mandate  that  had 
sprung  on  her.  Denial,  if  denial  had  been  demanded 
of  her,  she  would  have  deemed  as  joy.  This  Mary 
well  knew.  Yet  so  Is  human  nature  compact  of  para- 
dox, even  had  she  known  this,  even  had  she  foreseen 
and  dreaded  so  dire  a  consequence,  it  would  not  have 
deterred  her  course  of  action. 

But  she  had  not  discovered.  Yet  even  here  mischief 
ensued.  For  Rose,  instinctively  fearless  and  honest, 
had  been  pushed  to  falsehood  and  furtlveness. 


Impulsions  55 

As  she  left  home  that  evening  she  left  it  watchful. 
As  she  passed  through  Oldhamlet,  and  crossed  the 
fields  that  intervened  between  the  town  and  the  station, 
she  trod  them  firmly,  but  she  was  careful  to  see  that 
none  followed.  She  knew  that  something  of  Jesuitical 
precept  marked  the  ways,  though  not  the  doctrines, 
of  her  mother:  who  would  have  judged  her  love  for 
her  daughter,  and  her  regard  for  her  welfare,  as  suffi- 
cient justification  for  a  crafty  following  of  her. 

But  the  path  behind  was  clear,  and  already  she  saw 
a  courtly  figure  that  strode  restlessly  up  and  down  be- 
neath the  lengthening  shadow  of  the  station,  and  the 
swift  joy  that  ran  through  her  veins  left  her  in  no 
doubt  as  to  who  this  was. 

As  he  saw  her  he  came  quickly  forward,  and  a 
sudden  shyness  came  on  her,  that  was  trustful 
withal. 

"I'm  before  you  again,  you  see !"  said  he. 

"I'm  not  late,  ami?" 

"No;  punctual  to  the  minute."  He  scanned  his 
chronometer  without  regarding  what  it  said.  "But 
I'm  early  because  I've  been  looking  forward  all  the 
week  to  seeing  you  again.     I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

Genuine  joy  made  music  of  his  voice.  To  such  a 
sight  as  she  was  now,  what  were  all  the  cavillings  of 
all  the  Ogdens  that  the  world  possessed?  She  made 
him  a  man  again;  and  his  spirit  flung  a  challenge  to 
all  and  sundry,  defying  them  to  rob  him  of  his  felicity, 
or  cause  a  spirit  of  shame  to  dull  the  beauty  of  his 
love. 

She  too  had  hungered  for  a  sight  of  him;  but  since 
he  had  spoken  she  said  nothing.  She  was  glad  to 
leave  him  the  honour  of  speaking  the  necessary,  con- 
tent with  the  fact  in  herself. 

If  he  had  imagined  that  this  peaceful  Sunday  even- 


fjfi  Broken  Arcs 

ing  (the  very  birds  were  conscious  of  the  Sabbatic 
calm,  and  modulated  their  songs  accordingly)  was  to 
go  the  way  of  the  previous  Wednesday,  he  was  mis- 
taken. Anticipation  had  prepared  his  blood  for  the 
soft  thrills  of  moving  lips  and  ecstatic  caresses.  So, 
too,  had  her  own  anticipation  dwelt  on  the  occasion. 
But  her  mood  was  now  full  of  the  discomfort  her 
mother's  probings  had  produced;  and  she  spoke  of  it, 
simply  yet  questlonlngly. 

"Did  you  tell  them  anything?"  he  asked. 

*'Oh,  no!" 

Why,  he  knew  not,  but  a  dark  anxiety  fell  from 
him  as  she  spoke  these  words.  He  avoided  that 
theme. 

''But  we're  not  doing  wrong  in  loving,  are  we?"  he 
asked,  dwelling  softly  and  tenderly  on  the  word  "lov- 
ing," accompanying  its  gentle  breathing  with  an  eager 
look  and  a  pressure  on  the  hand  in  his  possession. 

She  looked  her  mute  astonishment. 

"Of  course  we're  not."  He  interpreted  her  atti- 
tude, and  brushed  the  obstruction  away  thus. 

She  did  not  admit  the  right  of  any  to  know  or  inter- 
fere: this  was  the  natural  attitude  of  her  mind;  a  mat- 
ter past  all  objection  or  cavil,  to  be  recognized  as  a 
fact  of  nature.  He,  however,  did:  therefore,  in  con- 
tradistinction to  her  attitude  of  quiet  strength,  he  was 
driven  to  argument  and  casuistry. 

"Our  affairs  are  our  affairs,  aren't  they?  I  love 
you — dear — and  you  love  me;  that  is  our  universe. 
Nothing  else  can  enter.  Our  love  is  its  only  law.  Oh, 
dear,  I  do  indeed  count  your  love  a  thing  to  be  proud 
of.  It  is  the  highest  honour  I  know;  nor  do  I  forget 
to  recognize  it  as  this."  He  flew  to  eloquence  in  the 
intensity  of  a  passion  that  he  stamped  real  and  gave 
a  run  to. 


Impulsions  57 

It  rang  like  sweetest  music  in  her  ears;  and  so  they 
passed  the  sands  and  shallows  of  circumstance  out  on 
the  broad  billows  of  undisturbed  felicity. 


XVIII 

But  though  they  might  forget  it  thus  easily,  it  was 
not  so  quickly  erased  In  another  quarter.  It  ate  its 
way  Into  Mary's  restless  mind.  It  was  more  than 
suspicion  to  her;  it  had  become  stamped  with  absolute 
conviction.  It  had  been  no  more  than  an  irritating 
suspicion  until  Rose  had  begun  to  avoid  her  question- 
ing. Mother-wit  had  flown  high  then,  calling  loudly 
through  her  mind  of  certainty.  At  Rose's  adroit  use 
of  her  father's  abstraction,  this  calling  had  become  a 
tumult. 

After  the  evening  meeting,  therefore,  which  Andrew 
himself  had  taken,  ignoring  the  obvious  fact  that  cer- 
tain subtle  phrases  he  had  happened  to  use  were  ring- 
ing delightedly  through  his  mind,  she  took  the  matter 
up  with  him.  Andrew  reclined  in  his  habitual  chair 
with  a  placid  smile  about  his  face,  that  the  evilly  dis- 
posed might  have  dubbed  a  smirk  of  self-satisfaction. 
Ostensibly  he  was  reading  a  weekly  journal  that  circu- 
lated through  an  elect  but  undistinguished  coterie. 
That  Is  to  say,  his  eyes  regarded  the  printed  page. 
His  mind,  however,  had  disassociated  itself  from  any 
visual  Impressions  his  retinae  endeavoured  to  commu- 
nicate along  the  nerves:  It  had  before  It  a  far  more 
complacent  picture  of  solemn  and  wondering  eyes  that 
had  lately  regarded  him  as  he  had  trod  his  verbal 
labyrinthine  way,  postured  as  a  platform  before  them. 
Sundry  rows  of  whispering  and  woefully  inattentive 
youngsters  on  the  far  fringes  did  not  belong  to  the 


58  Broken  Arcs 

picture.  It  was  the  nearer  picture  that  was  productive 
of  the  spiritual  complacency. 

Mary  knew  this :  she  had  not  observed  him  for  nigh 
twenty  years  of  married  life  for  naught.  She  knew, 
too,  that  this  made  the  present  moment  most  inauspi- 
cious for  the  broaching  of  so  important  a  matter.  But 
what  can  you?  With  a  restless  soul  and  an  urgent 
theme  occasions  are  not  auspicious  or  inauspicious,  but 
merely  imperative.     So  Mary  found  it. 

^'Andrew,**  said  she,  "do  you  think  Rose  is  falling 
Into  bad  ways  ?"  She  had  not  meant  it  quite  thus,  but 
let  it  pass  at  that. 

"Dear?"  said  he  in  query,  glancing  absently  at  her. 

She  looked  at  him  half  in  weariness,  half  in  anger. 
Since  Rose's  cleavage  from  her  home  they  had  drifted 
further  apart  than  ever,  though,  indeed,  he  knew  noth- 
ing of  this. 

"Don't  you  feel  anxious  about  Rose?" 

"Anxious?"  he  asked. 

"I  wish,  Andrew,  you  would  now  and  then  give  me 
some  of  your  attention.  I  can  never  discuss  any  sub- 
ject of  anxiety  with  you." 

"You're  a  little  irritable  this  evening,  I  think, 
Mary,"  said  he,  with  a  smile  that  was  gentle  merely 
because  it  purported  so  to  be.  Having  said  so  much, 
he  lapsed  into  his  sense  of  luxury  again. 

The  waters  of  poor  Mary's  anxiety  grew  doubly 
troubled  at  the  chafing  of  soul  this  caused  her.  But 
she  was  determined  to  exchange  her  thoughts  and 
doubts  with  this  her  partner  in  Rose's  cause  of  being. 
So  she  returned  to  the  attack. 

"Andrew,  you  must  listen.  It  was  you  who  were 
chiefly  responsible  in  sending  Rose  out  of  the  home 
where  she  properly  ought  to  be.  You  know  I  didn't 
want  it;  but  you  forced  it  by  what  you  call  argument, 


Impulsions  59 

but  what  /  call  making  up  your  mind  beforehand." 

''Mary,  we  needn't  go  into  these  details/' 

*'No;  perhaps  I'm  wrong.  But,  Andrew,  I'm  wor- 
ried. I've  fretted  ever  since  she  went  away,  and  I've 
been  looking  out  for  trouble.  I  felt  sure  it  would 
come.     And  now  to-day  I've  felt  most  unhappy." 

She  quivered  on  the  verge  of  tears — tears,  if  in- 
duced by  fretfulness  as  much  as  by  a  torturing  spirit, 
yet  tears  nevertheless,  and  therefore  pitiable.  She 
curbed  herself,  however,  like  one  accustomed  to  the 
intensity  of  self-restraint. 

''But  you  didn't  say  anything  special  had  happened 
to-day.  Has  anything  transpired?"  "Transpired" 
was  an  echo  from  the  earlier  evening,  but  neither  no- 
ticed it. 

"Yes,  and  no,"  she  replied,  a  little  fearful  of  put- 
ting the  findings  of  her  airy  instinct  before  the  wider 
intelligence  of  a  male,  a  male,  moreover,  versed  in 
dogmatic  insistence.  "But  to-day,  for  the  first  time, 
Rose  failed  to  take  me  into  her  confidence;  and  her 
manner  was  strange — f  know  it  was  strange." 

"Oh I  But  what  in?  I  didn't  notice  anything,  my 
dear.     But  then  perhaps  it  was  before  I  came  in." 

"No,  it  was  before  you."  His  eyes  flicked  with  a 
slight  surprise  at  so  amazing  a  fact.  "What  do  you 
think  she  went  early  for  to-day?" 

"Why,  to  meet  this  friend  of  hers, — what's  her 
name?     Emily,  wasn't  It?     She  said  so." 

"No,  that's  just  it.  She  didn't  say  so;  but  she  let 
us  think  it.  And  Rose  has  never  done  a  thing  like 
that  before.  Don't  I  know?  I'm  not  her  mother  for 
nothing." 

"I  think,  my  dear,  you're  making  much  out  of  very 
little,  I  must  say." 

"I  knew  you  would  say  that."     Mary's  head  jerked 


6o  Broken  Arcs 

indignation.  "But  you  don't  feel;  you  just  think,  and 
that  after  everything's  over.  I  feel;  and  Fm  fret- 
ting to  know  what  Rose  wanted  to  do  this  evening 
that  she  wouldn't  let  her  mother  know  about.  You 
mark  me,  Andrew,  If  she  doesn't  want  to  give  up  com- 
ing here  on  one  of  her  monthly  holidays  next." 

**If  you  thought  that,  why  didn't  you  speak  to  Rose 
about  It?" 

**0h,  you  don't  know  Rose,  not  as  I  do.  That 
would  just  drive  her  to  secrecy  and  stubbornness.  We 
should  never  have  let  her  go  out  to  Ipstowe ;  I'm  more 
sure  of  that  every  day."  Little  though  she  knew  It, 
the  maternal  Instinct  In  Mary,  sound  and  sane  In  Its 
hour  and  occasion,  had  worked  Itself  Into  that  most 
essential  of  all  forms  of  selfishness,  the  desire  to  live 
one's  life  In  another.  It  was  this  that  spoke  now. 
She  would  have  had  Rose  ever  by  her  side,  for  her 
own  sake,  not  for  Rose's.  And  this  despite  the  fact 
that  something  of  genuine  anxiety  for  Rose  was  part 
cause  of  her  present  fretfulness. 

Andrew  skirted  the  tender  subject. 

*'Shall  I  write  to  her?"  he  asked. 

"What  good  would  that  do?" 

"Mary,"  Andrew  sat  up  stiffly  In  his  chair  as  he 
spoke,  "I  must  object  to  your  taking  me  as  Inferior  In 
dealing  with  our  child.  I  am  concerned  in  her  wel- 
fare as  you  are.  I  shall  write  to  her  to-morrow  lov- 
ingly and  wisely,  counselling  her  to  wisdom  and  the 
care  of  God.  I  shall  refer  to  nothing  particular,  but 
shall  let  her  gather  the  cause  of  my  letter.  I  shall  do 
this  to-morrow." 

This  was  his  dismissal  of  the  subject,  and  she  be- 
took herself  off  to  the  preparing  of  supper  In  not  the 
peacefullest  of  humours.  He  made  an  effort  to  re- 
turn to  his  sweet  reflection;  but  failed  dismally;  so 


Impulsions  6i 

took  to  reading  the  print  in  genuine  earnest,  owing 
her  a  grudge  therewithal. 


XIX 

There  is  an  experience  that  is  grandmother  to  us 
all.  Much  of  her  wisdom  has  she  framed  in  saws 
and  apothegms,  which  thereby  have  come  to  wear  the 
name  of  grandmotherly  maxims.  Yet  in  most  of  such 
can  be  traced  the  result  of  some  far-off  inductive  gen- 
eralization (with  often  all  the  faults  of  inductive  gen- 
eralizations) fitfully  struggling  for  colloquial  expres- 
sion. Such  Is  the  saw  "It  never  rains  but  it  pours." 
Truly  this  only  means  that  the  impact  of  occasion  hav- 
ing been  given  to  circumstance,  waves  of  action  are  set 
up  that  tend  to  arrive  at  their  several  crises  simulta- 
neously. Not  that  it  should  be  so  because  it  has  been 
said  so:  but  rather  it  is  said  so  because  it  has  often 
been  so. 

Deductions  are  not  drawn  from  the  fact :  the  grand- 
motherly experience  merely  states  her  fact  as  thus, 
and  leaves  her  mortals  to  deduce  what  they  may.  She 
merely  says  that  crises  in  human  experience  tend  to 
arrive  together,  and  therefore  they  are  to  be  dismissed 
the  more  rapidly.  Therefore  the  issue  is  to  the  strong 
of  will  and  the  strong  and  resolute  of  intention. 

Thus  the  resolute  will  is  all  things;  and  an  insecure 
sentimentality  is  deadly.  In  Richard's  case,  however, 
the  resolute  will  had  not  yet  been  achieved;  and  it 
must  be  admitted  that  on  the  ebb  of  emotion  the  sands 
of  his  mind  had  been  washed  by  frail  waters  of  senti- 
mentality that  lackeyed  the  ruling  winds.  During  that 
week,  succeeding  to  the  high  emotion  that  the  Sun- 
day's meeting  with  Rose  had  achieved  in  him,  he  had 


€2  Broken  Arcs 

been  wrought  to  a  fervour  of  chlvalric  nobility  by  his 
reminiscence  of  her  loveliness  and  the  pure  strength 
of  her  mind;  alternating  to  presages  of  doubt,  haunt- 
ing questions  as  to  where  this  all  would  lead.  For  her 
very  strength  and  purity  of  Intention,  while  it  charmed 
him.  Inspired  him  with  something  of  fear.  It  dis- 
missed all  worldly  aspects  and  considerations  from  his 
mind,  that  afterwards  crept  in  with  taunting  finger, 
mocking  him. 

When  aroused  by  his  own  mind,  he  fought  them 
awhile  fearfully;  and  then,  seeing  he  could  not  be  vic- 
tor of  them,  he  dismissed  them,  and  determined  to 
tread  in  the  ways  of  delight  regardless  of  their  desti- 
nation to  him  or  to  her.  This,  though  cowardly 
enough,  yet  kept  his  mind  free  of  despair,  with  all 
the  evil  of  intention  that  despair  is  too  ready  to 
prompt. 

His  own  mind,  however,  was  not  the  only  assailant. 
Ogden  regarded  what  he  considered  his  honourable 
obligation  to  Richard  in  the  very  discipline  of  the  let- 
ter; but  departed  woefully  from  it  in  spirit.  "I  say," 
he  would  say  to  one  or  another,  **would  you  consider 
old  Dick  a  proper  receptacle  for  the  fires  of  Love?'* 

"Dick?"  would  come  the  reply.  'Tou  don't  say 
Dick's  in  love?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  anything.  Now,  my  dear  chap, 
did  I  say  anything?  I  just  ask  you,  did  I?"  And 
then  would  ensue  a  lifting  of  the  brows,  and  a  high- 
pitched  rippling  merriment  that  struggled  to  contain 
itself. 

*'I  say,  let's  have  the  joke,  whatever  it  is.  Who's  It 
with?" 

'That's  the  best  of  it  all.  My  Heavens  I  But, 
mum's  the  word!  Not  a  sound  to  the  wife!  But  ye 
gods !     The  thing's  too  superb  1" 


Impulsions  63 

And  so  he  would  pass  down  the  street  with  shaking 
shoulders. 

Or  It  would  be — 

*'My  dear  man,  in  confidence — you  know,  I'm  a 
kind  of  medical  adviser  to  Dick,  poor  old  chap !  Have 
you  noticed  anything  the  matter  with  him  lately?"  A 
quizzical  pucker  of  the  eyebrows  that  hovered  on  the 
verge  of  laughter  that  yet  essayed  a  mock  gravity, 
would  accompany  the  words. 

"No !     Nothing  wrong,  I  hope !" 

"Wrong?  Good  Heavens!  Wrong!  What  an 
idea !  You'd  better  not  let  Dick  get  a  wind  that  you 
said  that." 

"What  are  you  driving  at,  Ogden?" 

"Driving  at?  I  never  drive  at  anything.  I'm  dis- 
appointed you  should  think  I  drive  at  things.  I  just 
asked  you  a  question." 

"There's  some  joke  about  that  I  can't  get  the  loca- 
tion of.     What  Is  it,  Ogden?" 

"Joke?  It's  no  joke,  I  assure  you.  Love's  no 
joke,  my  dear  man,  that  you  ought  to  know  by  now. 
It's  a  damn'  serious  thing." 

"Love!     Dick  In  love?" 

"There  you  are,  jumping  to  conclusions  again!  I 
never  met  such  a  chap." 

All  this  began  to  gather  about  Richard  like  some 
hydra-headed  monster,  that  put  forth  an  eye  to  look 
on  him,  and  then  vanished  again  before  he  knew  where 
or  what  it  was. 

Moreover,  about  the  time  that  it  began  to  gather 
way  Rose  showed  him  the  letter  from  her  father,  in 
which  he  expressed  the  hope  that  she  "was  choosing 
her  companions  wisely" ;  and  that  she  did  not  propose 
to  make  "any  such  friendships  as  her  parents  would 
not  desire  for  her."     This  was  said,  as  he  put  it,  not 


64  Broken  Arcs 

that  he  doubted  her,  or  Imagined  that  she  was  "depart- 
ing from  the  way  In  which  she  had  been  nurtured,"  but 
generally  as  "an  expression  of  trust"  In  her,  and  by 
occasion  of  such  "godly  counsel"  as  It  fell  to  his  par- 
ental lot  to  "put  before  her."  It  had  disturbed  her: 
therefore  she  showed  It  to  her  beloved,  and  dismissed 
it  In  glad  confidence  in  him.  She  rejoiced  In  him; 
not  only  In  her  love,  but  in  him,  happily  and  peace- 
fully. He  had  brought  her  the  wonderlands  that  her 
mind  had  been  restive  for;  and,  never  having  yet 
tasted  of  disillusionment,  she  took  this  for  the  com- 
pleteness that  she  had  yearned  for,  and  found  fulness 
of  life  in  trusting  him  with  the  ardent  force  of  a  young 
nature-soul. 

But  he  had  not  her  strength,  not  her  purity  of  joy, 
and  therefore  had  moments  when  a  strange  and  un- 
timely feeling  of  egreglousness  came  over  him.  More- 
over, he  had  been  tutored  In  the  ways  of  worldly 
sagacity,  and  began  to  question  the  dark  brow  of  the 
future.  Therefore  when  she  abandoned  herself  to 
joy,  it  was  with  the  entire  simplicity  of  faith;  while, 
when  he  did  go,  it  took  more  and  more  of  reckless 
selfishness. 

Andrew  Foggetty's  letter,  in  this  way,  thrust  him 
further  In  dilemma.  To  her  it  was  a  thing  beside  the 
mark;  the  call  of  a  lesser  duty  beside  the  greater;  and 
though  she  determined  that  the  lesser  duty  should  not 
be  forgotten,  it  should  yet  not  be  permitted  to  inter- 
pose any  thwarting  hand  before  the  greater.  But  to 
him  it  was  a  rebuke.  It  challenged  his  uprightness; 
and  instead  of  meeting  challenge  with  challenge,  he 
fenced  it.  He  fenced  it;  and  It  broke  his  guard.  Time 
and  again  It  broke  his  guard.  Had  he  admitted  to 
himself  that  It  had  done  so,  he  might  then  have 
changed  his  position  to  one  of  better  vantage — or  even 


Impulsions  65 

foregone  the  fray.  But  he  did  not  admit  it ;  and  there- 
fore each  time  his  guard  was  broken,  more  of  corrup- 
tion came  to  his  soul.  Once  having  denied  reality  to 
himself,  he  began  to  give  himself  over  to  a  lie. 


XX 

No  pleasant  theme  is  the  progress  of  corruption  in 
a  man's  soul.  The  less  so  is  it  when,  as  in  Richard's 
case,  it  proceeds  with  appeals  of  emotion  that  were 
purging  and  noble. 

As  they  floated  by  from  meeting  to  meeting,  the  In- 
surgent question  greeted  him.  What  did  he  intend  to 
do?  In  wild  moments  daring  entered  him.  After 
having  come  from  her  warm  kisses,  and  having  before 
his  eyes  her  sensuous  yet  spiritual  and  pure  beauty, 
seeing  her  eyes  pierce  the  darkness,  deep  with  love, 
wide  with  glad  wonder,  and  full  of  Implicit  faith  in 
him,  he  determined  to  dare  all  for  her.  He  would 
sit  and  resolutely  sum  up  all  it  would  mean.  For  un- 
doubtedly (there  could  be  no  question  of  it)  this  would 
alienate  his  uncle,  and  he  would  have  to  look  vainly 
there  for  prospective  aid  or  bequest.  If  Indeed  he  were 
to  be  so  foolish  as  to  look  at  all.  Though  he  knew 
nothing  of  earning  a  living,  he  would  essay  It,  having 
for  slight  aid  his  own  very  slender  monies.  In  truth, 
It  might  have  been  said  that  it  was  his  very  Ignorance 
that  induced  the  courage.  He  would  do  this.  Would 
he  not  have  Rose  for  reward?  And  was  she  not  so 
rich  a  reward  as  to  outweigh  any  discomfort  or  anx- 
iety? In  fact,  he  was  to  be  envied  having  won  her. 
For  she  was  not  only  lovely  of  body,  she  was  lofty  of 
mind.  Further,  he  had  often  heard  It  stoutly  main- 
tained that  to  live  by  one's  personal  efforts  and  labour 


66  Broken  Arcs 

was  the  only  manly  method  of  procedure.     And  surely 
this  was  so! 

But  grey  morning  stript  him  remorselessly  of  all 
such  fervour  of  determination.  Moreover,  his  uncle's 
breakfast-table,  laden  with  all  the  fruits  and  comforts 
of  the  earth,  dispelled  his  nightly  resolutions  to  the 
four  winds  of  the  earth.  Rose  then  seemed  a  strange 
thing,  far  away  and  aloof,  and  his  fervour  and  wild 
joy  of  love  a  mystery  the  heart  of  which  was  gone. 

He  endeavoured  to  recover  his  freedom  by  throwing 
off  these  thoughts,  and  relinquishing  himself  to 
thoughtless  felicity.  But  this,  too,  became  Impossible. 
Andrew  Foggetty's  letter  met  him  at  all  hands,  and 
forced  him  to  perplexity.  He  only  achieved  relief  by 
forgetting  her  deliberately  between  their  hours  of 
meeting,  and  this  was  the  way  to  a  callousness  that  had 
results  unhealthy  enough.  Yet  it  certainly  purchased 
relief  and  gaiety. 

It  was  so  one  gay  morning  as  he  strode  obliviously 
up  among  the  matutinal  gaiety  of  Ipstowe  High  Street. 
Most  of  them  there  he  knew,  and  greetings  were  ex- 
changed as  he  took  his  way  among  them.  It  was  a 
market-day,  and  Ipstowe  cherished  market-days  with 
all  the  tenderness  of  a  towny  soul.  The  far  cathedral 
frowned  down  on  the  moving  peoples  from  Its  sunny 
heights  in  disapproval  of  their  unworthy  emotions. 
But  the  peoples  little  cared,  for  the  cathedral  was 
taken  from  its  awful  throne  and  set  on  the  perch  of 
mere  curiosity,  on  all  other  than  Sundays,  but  particu- 
larly so  on  market-days. 

Lowing  cattle  passed  in  herds  through  the  streets 
sullenly,  and  bucolic  figures  with  lengthy  staffs  followed 
them.  Contentment  was  in  Richard  as  he  moved  along, 
for  all  things  induced  in  him  a  joyous  exhilaration. 

But  as  he  moved  so,  suddenly  he  saw  a  sight  that 


Impulsions  67 

stabbed  through  him.  Rose,  with  her  two  charges, 
was  coming  down  the  street  towards  the  day's  market- 
place. She  looked  bewitching  In  the  morning  splen- 
dour of  day,  and  his  blood  ran  madly  In  him  at  the 
sight  of  her.  She  was  dressed  simply;  Instinct  had 
guided  her  to  simple  attire,  and",  as  her  wise  subtlety 
knew  how  to  don  such  attire,  she  always  gave  the  ap- 
pearance of  elegance.  But  to-day.  It  seemed  to  Rich- 
ard, she  seemed  beauty  made  thrice  beautiful.  She 
had  her  charges  one  by  each  hand,  and  Richard  could 
not  help  but  notice,  and  a  glow  of  Incalculable  pride 
stirred  in  him  as  he  noticed,  that  she  attracted  no  small 
degree  of  attention  and  admiration  as  she  moved 
along. 

Joy  rushed  madly  through  him,  but  perplexity  fol- 
lowed soon  after.  For  her  to  have  won  the  admira- 
tion of  the  pavement  throngers  was  one  thing,  but 
for  her  to  have  won  the  right  to  associate  with  them 
quite  another.  As  soon  would  they  admit  a  beauteous 
fawn  to  intellectual  debate.  The  admiration  was 
touched  with  condescension,  as  from  one  world  to  an- 
other. This  he  knew,  and  he  knew  too  that  she  would 
greet  him  frankly  and  affectionately,  though  she  might 
not  convey  In  her  manner  anything  more  decisive  than 
such  frank  affection. 

She  was  thirty  to  forty  yards  from  him,  and  had  not 
yet  seen  him.  Why  put  her  in  an  Invidious  position, 
thought  he.  It  would  certainly  not  be  kind  to  her, 
and  might  even  reflect  ill  on  her.  It  would  be  awk- 
ward for  him  too,  of  course:  that  was  to  be  thought 
of;  but  she  should  be  first,  and  that  he  should  put  her 
in  any  awkward  situation  was  a  thing  not  to  be  thought 
of.  His  heart's  dictate  was  to  take  her  In  his  arms 
and  acclaim  her  before  all  these  people  as  the  purest 
soul  In  the  world  (her  loveliness  was  too  apparent  to 


68  Broken  Arcs 

need  his  affirmation),  for  whom  he  was  content  to  give 
up  all  things. 

This  would  be  his  joy.  But  for  her  sake  he  would 
deny  himself  this  joy.  Therefore,  on  a  flash,  he 
darted  into  the  jeweller's  shop  beside  him,  and  solaced 
himself  for  his  loss  by  buying  her  a  brooch. 

When  he  was  come  out  she  had  disappeared  from 
view. 

As  he  strode  up  the  street  it  seemed  to  his  fancy  that 
the  sun  shone  not  quite  so  purely,  and  certainly  the 
lark's  song  was  not  a  tithe  so  joyous.  Friends  still 
greeted  him,  but  they  distasted  him.  And  it  was  with 
considerable  annoyance  that  he  saw  one  of  them  de- 
tach himself  from  a  group  and  come  over  towards 
him. 

^'Hullo,  Jim!"  said  he. 

"I  say,  Dick,  you  look  out  of  sorts:  what's  the  mat- 
ter? In  fact,  to  tell  the  truth,  we've  just  been  betting 
as  to  what  Is  the  matter  with  you.  Some  of  'em  say 
you're  In  love.     Is  that  right?" 

'-Love?  I?"  said  Richard,  Inwardly  cursing  Og- 
den,  to  whom  he  attributed  this  as  other  things  that 
had  come  on  him  of  a  like  kind.     "Do  I  look  like  it?" 

"Precisely;  that's  just  what  you  do." 

"Oh,  fiddle !  You  can  wash  that  notion  out  of  your 
head."  He  dared  not  refer  to  Ogden,  or  allude  to 
what  Ogden  had  seen,  and  so  he  fought  at  a  disad- 
vantage.    Moreover,  he  was  irritable. 

"You  deny  it  then,  eh?" 

"Deny  what?" 

"Why,  that  Cupid  has  lodged  In  you  his  ruddy  dart, 
or  however  It  ought  to  go." 

"Of  course  I  do.     I  never  heard  anything  so  silly." 

"Oh,  well,  we  must  accept  a  man's  word.  But  you 
certainly  look  melancholy." 


Impulsions  69 


"Tosh!" 

"You  do.     Besides,  Ogden- 


Rlchard  turned  quickly,  and,  taking  the  other  by  the 
arm,  said — 

"Tell  Ogden  he  can  go  to — you  know !" 

Then  he  swung  off,  while  the  other  went  laughing 
back  across  the  street. 

As  he  strode  rapidly  away  Richard  felt  he  had  made 
a  fool  of  himself. 


XXI 

When  next  they  met,  and  wandered  by  the  hedge- 
rows, he  said  to  her — 

"You  love  me,  don't  you,  Rose  dearest?" 

"My  darling,  I  do,  I  do !  You're  everything  to  me. 
You  know  that,  don't  you?"  She  had  found  tongue 
this  while,  and  spoke  to  him  In  the  glad  confidence  of 
entire  love.  As  she  spoke  she  put  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  clung  to  him  passionately. 

As  she  did  so,  quick  dark  thoughts  beat  through  his 
brain,  which  he  endeavoured  to  flush  over  by  kissing 
her  equally  passionately  in  return.  Nevertheless  they 
were  there,  and  left  him,  not  for  the  first  time,  but 
more  potently  than  ever  before,  in  the  toils  of  wishes 
that  conspired  against  his  better  self. 

"Of  course  I  believe  you,  my  own  sweetheart,  only 
I  like  to  hear  you  say  so." 

As  he  pressed  her  to  him  he  felt  the  box  In  his  waist- 
coat pocket  that  contained  the  brooch  he  had  bought 
for  her.  He  flushed  as  he  did  so,  and  had  not  the 
courage  to  give  it  her,  knowing  that  It  meant  the  price 
of  his  cowardice.  Knowing  it  now  as  cowardice,  the 
dark  thoughts  took  a  more  fateful  turn  In  him. 


70  Broken  Arcs 

The  night  was  moonless  but  fine.  A  gauze  of  cloud 
was  draped  over  the  stars,  that  shone  behind  It  like 
Infinite  points  of  suggested  light.  Darkness  was  deep 
on  the  earth.  They  themselves  had  eschewed  walk- 
ing. She  leant  upon  a  stile,  while  he  stood  beside  her 
now.     The  night  framed  her  with  mystic  beauty. 

'Tou  have  a  holiday  to-day  week,  haven't  you, 
dear?" 

"Yes,"  she  breathed. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  "we  might  go  away  to- 
gether." 

"Darling,  you  know  I  should  love  to,  but  I  think  I 
ought  to  go  home."  She  clung  to  that,  thinking  she 
had  his  approval  too. 

"Would  you  rather  go  home  than  come  away  with 
me?" 

"Oh,  dear,  how  can  you  ask  that?" 

"You  make  me  think  It,  Rose,  If  you  elect  It  in  pref- 
erence to  coming  away  with  me."  He  spoke  irritably, 
and  It  cut  her. 

"No,  Richard,  you  can't  think  that,  you  can't  think 
that.  I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  go  home.  You 
said  so  once,  dearest,  you  remember!" 

He  was  rebuked,  yet  enjoyed  the  advantage  that  was 
gained  him. 

"Then  you  will  come,  dear?" 

"Oh,  dear,  you  know  I  would  like  to.  I'll  do  as  you 
say.  But  mother  will  be  grieved,  I  know.  I  wouldn't 
like  her  to  be  grieved." 

A  spirit  prompted  Richard,  and  he  stepped  firmly 
to  ruthlessness. 

"I  would  like  It  very  much.  Rose,"  he  said. 

"Very  well,  dear!"  She  was  disappointed  In  him, 
the  more  so  as  his  manner  was  strange.  He  had  often 
been  strange  lately,  but  she  had  resolutely  refused  to 


Impulsions  71 

see  it.  Now  all  this  came  back  to  her,  and  she  shud- 
dered. But  she  clung  to  her  earlier  picture  of  him, 
seeing  him  all  beauty,  all  courage,  all  rectitude. 

'*0h.  Rose  dear,"  said  he,  "I  bought  just  a  little 
present  for  you  the  other  day:  a  brooch  it  is.  You 
won't  be  able  to  see  it  in  this  light.  Look  at  it  when 
you  get  home." 

And  this  was  he  whom  she  had  almost  let  herself 
doubt!  This  was  he  who  had  well-nigh  seemed  dark 
and  strange.     How  rebuked  she  felt! 

*Tcu  are  good  to  me,  Richard — very,  very  good. 
What  can  I  say?  You  know  I  thank  you  ever  so 
much."     Tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

**Never  mind  about  thanks,  sweetheart,"  said  he. 

Little  did  Rose  know  what  a  failure  in  him  that  gift 
meant!  Not  only  on  the  day  of  its  purchase,  but  on 
this  very  night!  Earlier,  it  would  have  been  impos- 
sible for  him  to  have  given  it  her.  It  had  been 
pressed  against  him  as  a  rebuke.  He  had  intended 
then  hurling  it  away;  it  was  as  a  brand  of  his  shame. 
He  would  then  have  insulted  no  friend  of  his  with  it. 
It  was  contraband  in  the  estates  of  nobility.  But  now 
he  gave  it  her,  and  what  moved  her  to  tears  of  remorse 
and  gratitude,  was  a  symbol  of  his  declension  of  spirit, 
and  consequently  of  his  regard  for  her. 

He  was  subconscious  of  this,  and  turned  quickly  to 
the  subject  of  their  outing — 

"I  thought  we  might  go  to  Rivermouth  for  the  day 
to-day  week." 

"Very  well,"  she  replied  confidently  and  joyously; 
**I  leave  it  to  you,  dearie.  I  don't  care  where  it  is  if 
it's  with  you.     I'll  let  mother  know  next  Sunday." 

*'Don't  you  think — you  don't  mind  my  suggesting  it, 
but  perhaps,  I  thought,  your  mother  might  make  an 
objection,  and  so  long  as  we're  happy,  what  does  it 


72  Broken  Arcs 

matter  what  others  say? — don't  you  think  it  would  be 
better  to  tell  them  after  next  Sunday?" 

It  spoke  her  own  thought.  Yet  it  stood  before  as 
an  evil  thing.     She  shivered. 

*'No,  Richard  dear,  I  don't  think — Fd  better  do 
that.  You  know  what  I  mean,  don't  you,  dear?  But 
I  won't  go  home  next  Sunday,  if  you  like.  Before 
now  I've  not  gone  home  the  Sunday  before  my  whole 
day." 

And  so  it  was  arranged.  Yet,  as  she  went  home, 
and  more  as  she  lay  wakeful  that  night,  a  strange  dis- 
turbance swayed  her.  What  this  was  she  could  not  say. 
What  caused  it  she  knew  not;  nor  was  she  able  to 
locate  the  manner  of  it.  In  her  thoughts  she  said  it 
was  caused  by  the  conflict  of  duties,  to  her  lover  and  to 
her  home,  in  which,  to  her,  there  was  not,  nor  could 
be,  choice  or  hesitation.  Nevertheless,  despite  her- 
self, deep  in  her  inmost  self  she  knew  that  this  disturb- 
ance was  caused  by  Richard's  own  manner  to  her.  Not 
that  his  was  only  irritable.  Once  or  twice  he  had  been 
so  of  late,  but  this  had  only  aroused  her  womanly  ten- 
derness, and  she  had  made  him  her  charge,  her  nurs- 
ling. But  now,  it  seemed  to  her,  he  was  more.  She 
knew  not  what  moved  in  his  mind,  but  she  knew  well 
that  something  moved  in  his  mind  that  was  not  born 
of  the  best  in  him;  that  was  not,  in  fact,  conceived  of 
their  love  as  she  had  hitherto  known  it. 

Though  she  brushed  it  away,  the  thought  remained, 
aloof  but  incalculably  potent.  When  she  awoke,  she 
had  forgotten  what  it  was,  but  it  lay  like  a  distaste  on 
her  tongue. 


Impulsions  ^% 


XXII 


Having  delivered  himself  of  his  letter  (some  of  the 
sentences  of  which  he  still  nurtured  tenderly  as  being 
gems  of  expression)  Andrew  took  up  again  the  even 
tenor  of  his  ways.  He  missed  Rose,  that  was  unde- 
niable. Yet  It  would  be  difficult  to  say  precisely  what 
emotions  It  begot  In  him  not  to  know  her  continually 
about  the  place.  Indignant  repudiation  would  have 
fronted  that  man  who  might  suggest  that  his  emotion 
was  one  of  very  genuine  relief:  and  despair  at  the 
abysms  of  human  folly  would  have  greeted  any  who 
might  suggest  that  even  such  very  Indignation  was  born 
of  his  subconscious  knowledge  that  such  a  scrutiny  was 
accurate.  But  relief  formed  no  Inconsiderable  part 
of  his  general  attitude.  Had  the  thought  of  Rose's 
return  ever  been  mentioned,  despair  would  have  seized 
on  him:  and  he  would  consequently  have  pointed  out 
the  Injustice  such  a  proposal  would  have  done  to  Rose; 
human  prognosis,  and  a  resolute  belief  In  the  preter- 
natural wisdom  swaying  mundane  affairs  would  have 
come  to  his  assistance. 

For,  said  he,  Mary  knew  him  and  understood  him: 
which  was  his  subtle  way  of  saying  that  her  spirit  had 
been  crushed  out  of  her,  to  forestall  her  contending 
with  him.  Rose,  however,  did  not  understand  him; 
or.  In  other  words,  Rose  had  not  had  years  of  his  Ir- 
refutable wisdom  to  crush  the  spirit  out  of  her.  With 
Mary  alone  In  the  house,  therefore,  his  ways  were 
peaceful  and  serene.  With  Rose,  godliness  was 
balked  by  contention.  Contention,  said  he,  was  an  evil 
thing:  by  which  he  meant,  he  liked  having  his  own 
way.  Like  most  men,  he  had  his  mental  tricks  by 
which   he   paraphrased   uncomfortable    realities    into 


74  Broken  Arcs 

sleek  unction.  It  was  so  when  he  told  Mary  that  it 
was  fit  Rose  should  fare  out  into  the  world  in  order 
to  acquire  depth  and  stability  of  character:  he  meant, 
of  course,  that  he  wished  her  out  of  the  way.  In  some 
measure  he  missed  her;  but  the  compensating  advan- 
tages were  too  weighty.  Had  he  wished  her,  of 
course,  he  would  have  dragged  her  back  ruthlessly 
with  some  other  stock  phrase,  and  with  complete  justi- 
fication. 

This  Mary  knew.  She  knew  not  the  composition 
of  the  reef;  but  she  knew  its  location.  And  she  steered 
accordingly.  This  was  not  worldly  wisdom,  for  there 
was  no  advantage  in  it.  Nor  was  it  even  the  lesser 
of  two  disadvantages.  It  was  pitiable  submission  to 
an  adamantine  state  of  affairs.  When  urgent  anxie- 
ties beset  her,  and  Andrew  escaped  to  the  mountains 
of  contemplation,  it  reduced  her  to  stony  despair. 
Once  it  had  brought  to  her  a  younger  and  happier 
gush  of  tears;  now  it  wrought  bitterness  in  her. 

Therefore  when  she  received  Rose's  first  intimation 
that  she  would  not  be  home  on  the  Sunday,  followed 
by  her  later  letter  conveying  the  fact  that  she  proposed 
to  spend  the  following  Thursday  with  a  friend,  though 
despair  fell  on  her,  she  nursed  her  own  trouble.  It 
wrought  mischief  in  her;  but  Andrew  saw  nothing  of 
this.  He  did  not  even  know  that  Rose  was  to  have 
been  home. 

Nevertheless,  Mary  could  not  hold  her  troublous 
forebodings.  They  wracked  her  till  they  demanded 
some  exchange  of  counsel.  Fruitless  she  knew  it 
would  be :  Rose's  very  letter,  which  to  her  was  full  of 
restraint,  withholdings  and  unfrankness,  would  have 
seemed  guileless  to  Andrew. 

*'Rose  is  not  coming  home  next  Thursday,"  she  said 
to  him. 


Impulsions  75* 

**0h,  is  that  so?"  he  replied  blandly. 

Minutes  passed,  during  which  fretful  time  she 
nursed  something  very  like  wrath.     Then  he  said — 

"Let  me  see,  that  was  to  have  been  her  monthly 
holiday,  wasn't  it?" 

*'Yes."     She  spoke  grimly. 

In  her  despair  and  anger  she  withheld  information 
from  him  germane  to  the  understanding  of  the  situa- 
tion: which  did  not  help  to  simplify  matters. 

"I  suppose  her  holiday  has  been  cancelled.  It 
isn't  always  convenient  to  hold  to  one  day,  that  I  can 
well  understand." 

"No,  I  don't  know  what  she  is  doing." 

"Does  she  say  what  she  is  going  to  do?" 

"Go  out  with  a  friend." 

"Well,  we  can't  always  keep  Rose  as  a  child.  So 
long  as  she  chooses  her  friends  wisely, — and  that  I 
think  she'll  do." 

She  made  no  reply  to  his  complacency,  but  fixed  him 
with  an  eye  in  which  lights  of  anger  darted.  He  es- 
caped the  obvious  malignity  by  peaceful  reflections. 

They  were  man  and  wife,  but  an  abyss  lay  between 
them.  Meanwhile  the  clouds  of  tempest  were  gather- 
ing in  bodeful  masses  over  the  head  of  their  child. 


XXIII 

RiVERMOUTH  was  a  seaside  resort  that  had  not  yet 
determined  whether  to  be  select  or  popular.  Its  en- 
deavours were  towards  the  popular,  but  the  disposi- 
tions of  Fate  seemed  inclined  to  choose  for  it  the  pro- 
pensities of  selectness.  The  truth  of  the  matter  was 
that  its  popularity  came  from  near,  but  its  selectness 
from  afar. 


76  Broken  Arcs 

Visitors  from  London,  coming  with  fixed  intention 
to  keep  the  rabble  aloof  (as  though  their  endeavours 
in  this  direction  in  the  past  had  not  been  crowned  with 
success  only  too  superlatively),  chose  Rivermouth  for 
retreat.  Ipstowe,  however,  and  the  countryside  about, 
on  all  holidays  and  festive  occasions  paid  pilgrimage 
to  Rivermouth  with  set  determination  to  be  jolly. 
They  took  copious  parcels  and  beaming  countenances 
to  aid  and  abet  them;  and  It  fared  ill  for  any  odious 
unit  that  did  not,  on  such  occasions,  join  issue  with 
boredom  by  the  joint  assistance  of  pewter  pot  and  rau- 
cous song. 

Apart  from  high  jubilees,  however,  Rivermouth  was 
as  silent  as  the  most  secluded  soul  could  wish.  Set 
sloping  on  a  hillside,  it  hung  over  the  sea.  Shipping 
it  had  none;  and  was  even  innocent  of  a  pier.  The 
promenade  lay  long  and,  save  for  the  centre  opposite 
the  town  true  and  proper,  ragged,  running  at  each  end 
into  down  or  warren.  It  did  not  cease,  that  is  to  say, 
as  it  might  be  imagined  a  promenade  would,  but  ram- 
bled with  helpless  indecision;  warren  or  down  being 
interspersed  with  promenade  until  promenade  expired 
in  the  complete  conquest  of  down  or  warren.  A  sem- 
blance was  thus  given  of  a  town  of  tolerably  preten- 
tious proportions.  And  as,  in  human  affairs,  it  is  al- 
ways the  covering  falsehood  that  wins  the  highest 
praise,  this  promenade  was  the  boast  of  Rivermouth. 

The  attentive  promenader  would  have  noticed  that 
the  centre  portion  of  this  promenade,  of  about  a  bow- 
shot in  width,  was  kept  with  more  than  ordinary  care. 
Behind  this  strip  lay  Rivermouth  town.  It  was  not 
large.  In  the  winter  months  its  miserable  aspect  made 
Its  proportions  seem  meagre.  But  during  the  summer 
full  streets  and  festive  windows  made  it  swell  out  with 
buxom  pride.     Moreover,  in  the  winter  months  the 


Impulsions  77 

train-service  from  Ipstowe  was  a  very  lethargic  af- 
fair. In  the  summer,  however,  It  busied  Itself  consid- 
erably while  it  lasted.  It  began  at  a  tardy  hour,  never- 
theless, and  ceased  early;  nor  could  urgent  memorials 
and  missives  to  the  railway  company  alter  this  lament- 
able state  of  affairs.  To  have  the  first  train  arrive  at 
ten,  and  the  last  to  leave  at  eight,  was  to  the  Intelligent 
RIvermouthlan  a  very  disastrous  matter. 

This  was  the  resort  to  which  Richard  brought  his 
Rose. 

They  came;  and  in  the  case  of  neither  was  there 
anything  that  might  have  been  called  gaiety.  Rose 
had  summoned  up  her  whole  soul  to  enjoy  this  day 
with  her  beloved.  But  something,  somehow,  failed. 
As  before,  she  sought  to  attribute  this  to  the  fact  that 
she  had  been  compelled  to  deceive  her  mother.  She 
did  not  endeavour  to  think  of  it  as  anything  other  than 
deceit;  she  recognized  It  so,  frankly  and  freely,  but 
found  It  sunk  in  a  duty  that  stood  to  her  complete  and 
high  above  all  others,  her  duty  to  her  love, — not 
merely  to  her  lover,  but  also  to  her  love. 

Yet  though  she  did  this  firmly,  It  seemed  useless  for 
her  to  try  and  disguise  the  fact  that  Richard  did  cer- 
tainly seem  strange.  A  constraint  seemed  to  bind  him. 
Indeed,  strange  thought  I  he  often  seemed  as  though 
he  were  caught  in  the  trammels  of  a  trance.  Per- 
plexity he  certainly  manifested. 

Coming  down  in  the  train  his  caresses  conveyed  this 
In  the  very  touch  of  skin  on  skin,  flesh  on  flesh.  He 
seemed  afraid  of  her  touch.  He  looked  no  more 
glowingly  in  her  eyes.  His  clasp  of  her  seemed  either 
weaker  or  stronger  than  before:  If  weaker,  weaker 
with  strange  fear;  If  stronger,  stronger  with  something 
of  ferociousness.  It  was  no  longer  firm  with  all  deep 
passion.     His  kiss  on  her  lips  seemed  no  more  warm 


78  Broken  Arcs 

and  full,  but  hot  and  quick — so  hot  as  almost  to  be 
cold!  so  quick  as  almost  to  seem  spurred!  Those 
tender  attentions  lacked  in  him  now.  Rebellious  dark 
wisps  of  her  hair  he  had  loved  to  stroke  into  their 
place  with  gentle  fingers.  Not  that  they  did  not  look 
becoming  in  their  hovering  profuseness;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  had  termed  them  enchanting;  but  his  care  of 
her  had  found  expression  in  so  careful  an  attention. 
Now  he  disregarded  them.  Instead  of  great  large 
warmth  of  love,  hot  and  cold  alternated  in  him.  He 
seemed  rather  to  relish  the  pressure  of  her  body  than 
the  intense  nearness  of  herself.  And  yet,  in  the  midst 
of  this,  he  would  be  caught  in  the  toils  of  distant,  and 
almost  self-reproachful,  reflection. 

She  felt  this,  and  knew  not  how  to  account  for  it. 
Firm  in  her  faith  of  him,  it  caused  her,  despite  the 
disparity  of  their  years,  to  rise  almost  to  a  motherly 
regard  of  him.  She  had  drawn  him  to  her,  and  ca- 
ressed him,  not  so  much  as  lover,  rather  as  child.  It 
was  as  though  a  fitful  fever  had  stricken  him,  and  she 
would  soothe  it  away.  And,  therewithal,  her  love  for 
him  flew  into  purer  and  serener  heights,  singing  a  holy 
hymn  through  the  vast  regions  of  her  mind.  The 
effect  of  this  impalpable  grandeur  of  her  was  to  renew 
in  him  the  perplexity  and  diffidence  that  had  caught 
him. 

His  conversation,  too,  had  swung  uncomfortably 
round  the  protestation  of  her  love  for  him.  He  de- 
manded to  know  continually  of  this;  and  spoke  dis- 
tantly of  love  being  its  all-sufficiency.  This  she  never 
doubted.  Love  to  her  was  all  and  in  all.  To  insist 
on  it,  to  her  mind,  was  to  bespeak  doubt  in  the  in- 
sister's  mind.  Surely  he  did  not  doubt?  No,  he  did 
not  doubt.  Far  from  it,  the  fact  meant  everything 
to  him.     He  was  glad  she  thought  so  too.     As  for 


Impulsions  79 

him,  where  love  was  there  was  purity,  there  was  hon- 
our, there  was  cleanness.  It  was  its  own  all-suffi- 
ciency. He  had  flown  thus  in  metaphysic  ether,  and 
she  but  dimly  perceived  what  it  all  meant.  If  she 
understood  him  aright,  then  it  seemed  to  her  he  was 
labouring  the  self-evident.  At  least  she  could  not  see 
w^hat  occasion  he  had  to  say,  and  not  alone  to  say,  to 
repeat  In  strange  and  mystic  phraseology,  that  man's 
ordinances  were  nothing  without  love,  and  that,  there- 
fore, where  love  was,  man's  ordinances  were  imperti- 
nent trifles.  Or  that  the  "act  of  love"  (these  words 
were  vagueness  to  her,  although  he  spoke  them  con- 
fusedly), being  the  true  and  Inevitable  outcome  of 
love,  was  justified  if  a  love  anterior  to  It  was  rich  and 
complete,  and  that,  therefore,  where  love  was,  the 
*'act  of  love"  was  not  only  justified  under  all  circum- 
stances, but  was  Indeed  imperative  and  to  be  desired. 
To  one  more  versed  in  worldly  wisdom  all  this  would 
have  sounded  perilously  like  special  pleading;  but  she 
endorsed  all  as  only  too  self-evident.  Who  could 
deny  such  obvious  propositions?  And  therefore 
why  trouble  to  make  them?  Yet,  though  she  assented 
to  the  propositions,  soothing  and  caressing  him  the 
while,  strange  tremors  fled  through  her  blood  some- 
times as  he  spoke,  and  at  the  way  he  spoke,  which  she 
could  not  define,  and  which  troubled  her.  Once  or 
twice  she  had  shivered  with  a  sudden  rigour. 

Now,  however,  that  they  were  arrived  In  the  town, 
Richard  seemed  to  throw  off  his  strangeness  and  his 
questionings.  The  day  was  full  and  lovely;  and  they 
were  determined  to  rejoice  In  it  completely. 

Her  "whole  day's  holiday"  was  rather  a  travesty 
of  English  straightforward  meaning,  for  it  was  not 
until  the  morning  was  well-nigh  over  that  she  ever  was 
released  from  her  duties.     It  was,  therefore,   early 


8o  Broken  Arcs 

afternoon  when  they  arrived,  and  the  first  business  that 
met  them  on  arrival  was  lunch. 

What  a  thing  is  a  worthy  meal  I  To  the  pure- 
minded,  empty  of  stomach,  filled  with  the  strange  ex- 
hilaration that  such  clean  fitness  produces,  it  will  mean 
the  devastation  of  joy,  high-toned  joy,  by  crude  som- 
niferousness.  To  those  to  whom  a  fasting,  or  pseudo- 
fasting,  stomach  has  brought  irritation  and  false  ex- 
citement, it  will  be  the  hand  of  peace,  bringing  new 
gaiety  of  soul  and  healthfulness  of  body. 

It  was  this  latter  effect  that  was  produced  in  Rich- 
ard. Striding  along  the  promenade  afterwards,  his 
gaiety  was  so  infectious  that  every  evil  impression  was 
soon  dispelled  from  Rose's  mind,  and  she  gave  herself 
up  to  the  felicity  of  the  occasion.  The  sea  leapt  and 
danced  under  an  eastern  blow  of  wind,  and  sparkled 
with  gay  silver  in  innumerable  points  of  light  over  its 
blue  expanse.  Up  from  the  world  beyond  the  waves 
great  masses  of  cumulus  clouds  were  being  driven  up 
over  the  horizon  to  the  zenith  of  blue  heaven;  but  as 
they  coursed  up  the  arc  of  azure  purity,  rolling  at  first 
in  majestic  bulk,  they  seemed  to  be  strlpt  of  their  vol- 
ume, achieving  the  zenith,  if  at  all,  in  daintier  and 
more  fragile  form.  Taking  advantage  of  the  freshet 
that  blew,  yacht  and  yachtllngs  chased  after  white 
horses,  dipping  their  elegant  prows  in  the  midst  of  a 
wave  to  toss  it  away  in  signal  of  victory.  White  sails 
danced  in  the  sun,  now  grey  with  shadow,  now  sud- 
denly lit  with  snowy  brilliancy. 

Even  Richard  seemed  to  throw  off  himself.  As  for 
Rose,  she  sang  out  with  merry  laughter  as  though  to 
defy  care  and  gloom,  with  such  abandon,  indeed,  as  to 
bring  him  confusion.  So  to  the  far  end  of  the  prome- 
nade they  went,  where  there  were  none  to  observe 
them.     Sitting  on  the  slope  of  down,  she  gave  herself 


Impulsions  8 1 

up,  not  to  the  love  of  love,  but  to  the  love  of  life.  He 
felt  sharply  jealous,  indeed,  that  her  happiness  seemed 
not  so  much  to  be  in  him  as  in  the  very  bliss  of  living. 
Yet  he  could  not  regard  her  with  any  other  than  plea- 
sure :  she  was  so  frankly  and  freely  a  thing  of  Nature, 
She  held  his  hand  as  she  sat  upright  gazing  on  the  sea, 
her  eyes  glowing  with  light  wonder.  All  the  soul  of 
her  that  the  intricate  and  commercial  wisdom  of  Man 
had  hedged  about,  seeking  nothing  so  much  as  to 
starve  and  kill  it,  chanting  in  her  ear  hypocritically  the 
while  that  it  was  eternally  imperishable,  sprang  out 
now  and  laughed  with  very  glee  in  the  face  of  a  more 
gracious  Heaven. 

''Are  you  enjoying  yourself?"  asked  he,  to  win  the 
obvious  affirmative,  and  to  see  of  what  sort  it  would  be. 

"Oh,  Richard !"  She  turned  on  him  with  wide  eyes. 
They  were  porches  on  the  world,  and  Joy  stood  in 
them  hailing  him. 

"It's  a  beautiful  day,"  he  said,  with  some  of  his 
older  kindness. 

"It's  lovely  I"  Any  theme  did  for  a  handle  for 
joy  to  lay  hold  on.  Yet  the  day  was  but  a  fragment 
of  her  felicity. 

"You're  enjoying  the  day  more  than  me."  He 
spoke  with  slight  reproach. 

"I'm  enjoying  everything;  and,  of  course,  you  old 
dear,  you're  the  cause  of  it  all.  You've  made  Life  for 
me,  and  I'm  enjoying  it.     I  am  so  happy." 

"Am  I,  then,  so  much  to  you?" 

She  regarded  him  a  moment  seriously;  then  laughed 
out — 

"Without  you,  it  would  be  nothing;  nothing!  Yoti 
make  it;  you  give  me  the  heart  to  enjoy  it." 

"I'm  glad  I  brought  you  down."  He  purposely 
made  as  though  he  misunderstood  her. 


82  Broken  Arcs 

*'0h,  It's  not  that!  It's  much,  much  more  than 
that.  It's  our  love,  I  suppose.  It  must  be,  for,  dear, 
this  is  Life.  This  Is  what  I've  been  wanting.  I've 
never  enjoyed  myself  till  now.  If  Heaven's  like  this, 
then  I  want  It  I"  She  laughed  out  again.  She  opened 
her  arms,  and  breathed  deep,  as  though  to  embrace  the 
god  of  air.  She  raised  her  laughing  eyes  to  Heaven, 
rejoicing  In  Its  snow-strewn  fields  of  azure;  and  If  ever 
eyes  spoke  worship,  the  abandonment  of  self  In  Deity, 
In  God,  her  eyes  spoke  It  then.  It  was  as  though  her 
soul  grew  to  new  splendour  every  moment. 

He  tempted  her  to  the  joy  of  caresses.  But  she  did 
not  so  much  as  see  the  purport  of  his  meaning.  It 
went  by  her  without  touching  her  thought.  It  made 
no  Impress  on  her  spirit,  for  she  was  given  up  to  that 
utter  joy  that  is  the  theme  of  life  to  each  created  being. 
She  then  touched  Life:  she  lived  then  her  soul-life, 
untrammelled  and  untainted;  and,  though  he  knew  it 
not,  he  was  essential  to  It.  Without  him  It  would  not 
have  been. 

They  did  not  note  how  the  hours  fled  with  swift  and 
limber  wing.  But  the  fading  afternoon  made  itself 
known  to  him;  and  after  consultation  of  his  watch  he 
announced  that  It  was  time  they  saw  to  the  perfunctory 
business  of  tea. 

"We  won't  go  back,"  said  he;  "there's  a  village  over 
this  way  that  we  can  go  to,  where  they  have  a  very  nice 
place." 

"Oh,  you  know  all  about  here,  then?"  she  asked 
surprlsedly. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  replied. 

She  remembered  this  afterwards,  and  the  memory 
was  stinging. 

They  went  on  then  to  this  desirable  spot,  and  by  the 
time  they  reached  It,  It  was  bearing  swiftly  to  the  hour 


Impulsions  83 

of  SIX.  Her  jollity  had  perforce  then  to  be  less  aban- 
doned, for  the  house  of  their  retreat  was  seemingly  a 
popular  one,  and  was  well  stocked  with  picnickers. 
Nevertheless,  the  occasion  was  sufficiently  free,  and 
her  joy  became  stronger  because  subdued.  His  man- 
ner was  awkward  and  strained,  however,  and,  though 
she  knew  it  not,  his  heart  was  beating  a  high  tattoo  on 
his  ribs.  He  was  pale,  and  avoided  her  glance.  Pres- 
ently he  regarded  his  watch,  and  she  asked — 

*'0h,  dear,  when  does  the  last  train  go?" 

"Not  yet,  anyway!  It's  too  early.  Why  do  you 
ask?" 

"Mrs.  Sims  told  me  it  went  early — eight,  she  said 
she  thought  it  was.  We  should  have  asked  at  the 
station." 

"It  can't  be  so  early  as  that."  He  spoke  awk- 
wardly. 

"Do  make  sure,  dear!     Can't  they  tell  you  here?" 

"Excuse  me,  but  if  you're  wanting  the  last  train 
away  from  Rivermouth" — a  voice  broke  in  from  an 
adjoining  table — "it  goes  at  eight  o'clock." 

"I'm  obliged  to  you,"  said  Richard  stiffly. 

"Oh,  we  must  go,  then."     Rose  jumped  up. 

"No  need  to  hurry.  There's  plenty  of  time." 
Richard  rose  too,  and  leisurely  went  out  with  Rose  to 
settle  their  account,  and  depart. 

"They'll  never  do  it."  He  who  had  proffered  his 
knowledge  spoke,  regarding  his  watch.  "It's  after 
seven  now." 

When  they  were  without,  Rose  said — 

"You  don't  think  we'll  miss  it,  do  you .  What's  the 
time  now?" 

Richard  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Barely  after  a  quarter  to  seven,"  he  announced, 
somewhat  needlessly  displaying  it  for  Rose  to  check 


84  Broken  Arcs 

the  information  for  herself.  ''Which  gives  us  plenty 
of  time." 

Nevertheless  she  sped  down  the  road  towards  the 
extremity  of  RIvermouth  promenade. 

*'ThIs  Is  the  nearest  way,  dear,  I  suppose,"  said 
she. 

"Quite,"  he  replied,  hasting  beside  her. 

It  was  not. 

"But  why  hurry  so?"  asked  he,  with  a  short  awk- 
ward laugh. 

Anxiety  fled  her  face  as  she  turned  with  merry 
laughter  to  him. 

"Why,  you  dear  old  thing,  suppose  your  watch  Is 
slow!" 

"It's  not  likely  to  be.  Anyway,  It  would  be  the 
first  time.  If  It  were." 

"Still,  I'm  worried,  dear.  Whatever  would  we  do 
if  we  missed  It!" 

He  hasted  beside  her. 

Much  of  the  precious  time  had  fled  by  the  time  they 
reached  the  end  of  the  promenade.  They  had  yet  to 
proceed  up  the  length  of  this,  through  the  town  to  its 
far  end.  In  fact,  as  Is  apparent,  they  were  fetching 
a  half-circle  towards  their  destination.  Anxiety  was 
supreme  In  her  lest  they  should  miss  the  train  after  all. 

Nevertheless,  such  was  the  pace  she  made  that  Rich- 
ard himself  began  to  conceive  misgivings  and  anxie- 
ties: but  his  were  lest,  after  all,  they  should  catch  It. 
Constantly  he  consulted  his  watch;  and  each  time  he 
did  so  she  Inquired  of  him  to  know  how  the  time  fled. 
So  they  sped,  side  by  side,  at  hideous  cross-purposes  I 

But  she  knew  nothing  of  this.  Nothing  of  irony 
knew  she  as  she  laughed  out  in  the  excitement  of  the 
race. 

Up  through  the  town  they  sped  breathlessly.     Rlch- 


Impulsions  85 

ard's  pulse  beat  a  mad  fury  through  his  veins.  Rose 
had  sunk  anxiety  in  the  wild  glory  of  a  race  against 
time.  They  had  not  noticed  that  a  pall  of  clouds  cov- 
ered the  sky,  and  that  the  eastern  freshet  was  now 
burthened  with  a  light  but  keen  rain. 

*'That's  it,  I  believe,"  he  called  out,  as  the  whistle 
of  an  engine  pierced  the  air. 

*'0h,  never  I"  she  cried,  a  wild  pleading  anxiety  in 
her  face,  that  smote  him  uncomfortably.  "There's 
heaps  of  time  yet." 

"There  should  be,"  he  said,  referring  again  to  his 
watch;  "unless,  that  is,  I'm  slow." 

"It  is  I"  she  said,  stopping,  her  voice  wrung  with 
tears.  The  strong  steady  steam-roars  of  an  engine 
drawing  out  a  train  broke  on  the  air. 

"It  may  not  be,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  but  it  is."     Her  spirit  was  broken. 

As  they  came  to  the  corner  they  could  see  the  train 
curving  away  out  of  the  town ;  and  inquiry  elicited  the 
fact  that  this  was  indeed  the  last. 

"Oh,  whatever  shall  we  do?"  she  moaned. 

"Why,  stop  here,  dear.  Let's  see  if  we  can't  send 
a  wire  to  the  Sims."  His  was  a  forced  gaiety,  and  yet 
not  wholly  forced. 

Her  spirit  was  broken.  She  said  nothing,  but  clung 
to  his  arm. 

Wildly  the  blood  beat  in  his  veins.  Restraining 
himself  firmly,  however,  he  said  again — 

"Yes,  dear,  and  lest  anybody  should  make  remarks, 
see — dear,  my  own  sweetheart! — ^just  put  this  on!" 

He  fingered  in  his  waistcoat-pocket  feverishly,  and 
drawing  out  a  plain  gold  ring,  took  her  left  hand  and 
slipped  it  on  the  third  finger. 

Submissively  and  dreamily  she  let  him  do  so.  Then 
she  regarded  it,  and  turned  her  face  up  to  his,  wist- 


86  Broken  Arcs 

fully  and  with  a  whimsical  smile.  Then  suddenly,  as 
she  looked  in  his  eyes,  her  look  changed,  and  she 
shivered. 

*'Are  you  cold.  Rose  dear?''  he  asked. 

"Ye — si"  she  shivered  again. 

He  drew  his  arm  about  her,  and  led  her  down  again 
into  the  town. 

XXIV 

Nigh  two  months  had  passed  since  that  night  at 
Rivermouth,  and  with  them  had  flown  the  summer. 
For  some  while  after,  Richard  and  Rose  had  met  as 
before,  and  then  he  had  returned  to  the  theme,  beg- 
ging a  renewal,  which  she  had  stoutly  resisted.  In- 
deed, save  in  his  mind,  the  subject  had  seemed  forgot- 
ten. The  Sims,  knowing  only  too  well  that  her  serv- 
ices were  purchased  only  too  cheaply,  had  shunned  the 
matter,  the  more  so  as  she  seemed  so  confused,  so 
contrite  and  so  upset  over  the  affair — disproportion- 
ately so,  to  their  thought,  and  so  they  commended  her 
conscience.  Inquiry  had  not  elicited  from  her  what  had 
happened  to  her  friend  in  the  escapade.  Therefore 
Mrs.  Sims  came  to  the  ready  judgment  that  Rose's 
friend  had  been  lightly  let  off  in  her  employment 
(wherever  that  was),  and  that  therefore  it  behoved 
her  not  to  appear  a  hard  mistress  in  comparison.  At 
Oldhamlet  nothing  had  been  said,  and  nothing  was 
known.  Yet  Mary's  perplexity  had  swollen  apace,  for 
Rose  was  stranger  and  more  aloof  with  her  than  ever. 

The  opening  gusts  of  autumn  swept  through  the  city 
now.  It  had  rained  all  day,  and  the  streets  bore  the 
bedraggled  evidences  of  it.  It  rained  no  longer  now, 
but  this  seemed  only  due  to  the  fact  that  the  gale  of 
wind  had  doubled  its  fury.     Around  each  tree,  lining 


Impulsions  87 

the  roadsides,  lay  a  sodden  circle  of  sere  leaves,  bid- 
ding foot-passengers  beware  of  their  tread.  The 
pavement  gleamed  long  and  desolate  In  the  lights  of 
the  street-lamps. 

Despite  the  fact  that  a  caution  was  flung  out  In  yel- 
low and  dim  reds  to  foot-passengers,  there  were  indeed 
no  passengers,  foot  or  otherwise,  to  pay  heed  to  it. 
One  only  was  abroad,  standing  at  the  street  corner, 
with  a  street-lamp  playing  its  feeble  light  on  her  pale 
face:  and  this -was  Rose.  She  glanced  continually 
down  towards  the  High  Street,  which  seemed  the  more 
dismal  because  of  its  gaudier  shop-lights.  She  did 
not  move  a  step  from  her  first  stand;  but  as  she  pulled 
her  gloves  off  and  on  v-di  fierce  twitching  fingers.  It 
was  only  too  evident  that  her  whole  nature  was  strung 
up  to  its  last  point  of  endurance.  Indeed,  a  glance  at 
her  face  might  have  shown  this.  Tears  stood  like 
beads  in  her  eyes,  and  now  and  again  they  would  well 
over  and  course  her  cheeks.  She  paid  no  heed  to  this, 
save  to  press  her  lips  so  firmly  that  the  blood  left 
them,  thus,  by  sheer  effort  of  will,  to  regain  control  of 
herself.  Rose  was  her  name;  but  the  roses  had  fled 
her  cheek.  Deathly  pale  she  was,  yet  even  her  pallor 
did  not  rob  her  of  her  beauty.  Rather,  It  made  It 
seem  the  more  unearthly. 

She  had  not  seen  Richard  for  over  a  fortnight  now. 
He  had  had  to  leave  for  London,  so  he  said.  But 
yesterday  she  had  received  a  letter  from  him  asking 
her  to  meet  him  to-day  at  their  old  rendezvous.  The 
last  two  or  three  times  she  had  seen  him  he  had  pressed 
her  hotly  for  a  resumption  of  his  rights — for  so  he 
evidently  deemed  them,  though  he  spoke  of  them  as 
the  honoured  privileges  of  their  love.  Her  eyes  had 
become  opened,  not  only  to  him,  but  to  much  else  of 
consequence  in  this  world,  as  he  had  done  so;  but  she 


88  Broken  Arcs 

had  said  no  more  than  merely  firmly  to  resist  him. 
She  had  been  driven  Into  the  recesses  of  deep  thought, 
and  her  whole  soul  had  known  dire  tempest;  but  she 
had  had  none  to  counsel,  aid,  or  comfort  her.  She 
had  stood  ready  to  give  up  all  for  one;  and  now  the 
fierce  winds  of  tempest  came  from  that  one.  He 
spoke  In  his  letter  of  having  a  most  Important  matter 
to  discuss  with  her. 

She,  too,  had  a  most  Important  matter  to  tell  him 
of.     And  hence  her  tears  and  plucking  fingers. 

She  waited  long,  but  she  never  so  much  as  moved 
her  position.  With  rigid  tension  she  awaited  him,  and 
for  the  first  time  In  their  acquaintance  he  was  late. 

At  length  he  appeared  stepping  up  the  street  quickly. 
As  he  came,  she  drew  a  deep,  deep  breath  to  control 
herself.     He  came  up  to  her  saying — 

*'DId  you  think  I  was  never  coming!  I'm  sorry  to 
be  so  late." 

Her  hat  hid  her  face  from  him,  and  he  did  not  see 
her  agitation. 

*'Oh,  Richard  I"  she  broke  out,  sobs  shaking  her  over. 

"My  dear  Rose,  whatever  Is  the  matter?"  he  ex- 
claimed. She  let  him  take  her  Into  his  arms,  as  it 
seemed  to  him  as  though  It  were  against  her  will. 

He  comforted  her,  and  soothed  her.  Presently  he 
said — 

"And  did  you  miss  me  so  much  as  all  this?  We 
must  never  be  separated  again.  You  must  come  to 
me. 

At  this  she  broke  from  him  convulsively. 

"Richard,"  she  said,  struggling  fearfully  to  speak 

calmly.     "I've  got  a "  She  ceased;  then,  gripping 

his  forearm  with  hard,  fierce  fingers,  she  changed  her 
phraseology.  "Richard,  I  have  a  child  coming,  you 
and  I." 


Impulsions  89 

**No,  Rose,  It  can't  be !"  He  spoke  with  horror  in 
his  voice.  He,  the  one  responsible  for  it,  he  spoke 
with  horror! 

Her  answer  was  almost  of  anger — 

**But  it  is  so !     I  say  it  is  so  I" 

"Whatever  will  you  do?'*  He  repudiated  respon- 
sibility. 

She  said  nothing;  but  her  eyes  dried  of  their  tears 
as  she  stared  hardly  at  him.  He  shifted  his  gaze  be- 
fore her. 

*'Rose,"  he  said,  and  spoke  rapidly,  as  though  to 
cover  thin  ice  with  speed,  "this  must  be  my  charge. 
You  must  come  to  me.  We'll  take  rooms  in  London, 
and  live  there.  You  see,  as  you  say,  it's  our  child,  and 
we  must  both  see  to  it.  How  soon  could  you  get 
away,  do  you  think?  The  sooner  the  better,  I 
think!" 

Hope  and  despair  fluctuated  in  her.  Joy  chased 
revulsion  a  fearful  race  round  the  gloom  of  her  soul. 
Half  she  interpreted  his  meaning,  and  half  she  did 
not.  Or  rather,  his  meaning  leapt  on  her,  but  she  res- 
olutely refused  it.  Yet  she  put  her  question  to  him 
firmly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Richard?  That  you'll  marry 
me?" 

"Oh,  Rose,  how  can  I?"  He  spoke  with  raised 
voice.  "You  know  my  difficulties.  I  should  be  dis- 
inherited, for  one  thing.  And  I  can't  earn  a  living; 
I've  never  learnt  how,  and  I  have  no  experience.  You 
see,  it  would  be  ruin  for  both  of  us.  But  if  you  come 
with  me,  I'll  be  faithful  to  you.  I  swear  that  by  high 
Heaven.  You'll  be  as  good  as  a  wife  to  me;  better! 
for  I  shall  know  you  gave  up  all  for  me.  Later  on, 
when  my  uncle  dies,  we  may  marry.  Look,  dear,  it 
would  really  be  more  comfortable  the  way  I  suggest. 


90  Broken  Arcs 

For  youVe  everything  to  me,  God  knows  that;  and  It 
would  cut  me  to  the  quick  to  see  you  In  want  or  anx- 
iety, as  you  would  be  If  I  had  suddenly  to  earn  my  own 
living.  Whereas  this  way,  you  see,  Fll  have  plenty  of 
money,  and  so,  dear,  will  you." 

She  drew  away  quickly  from  him  at  this. 

*'0h,  I  didn't  mean  It  that  way,"  he  pleaded  quickly, 
*'I  really  didn't.  I  didn't  mean  to  suggest  I  should 
buy  you.  Oh,  that's  dreadful.  No,  It's  only  love  that 
could  possibly  justify  the  step  I  suggest.  And  God 
knows  I  love  you." 

'Tou  don't  love  me,  Richard."  It  flashed  from 
her  as  though  It  were  a  revelation  to  herself,  that 
broke  out  despite  herself.  She  had  kept  silence 
hitherto,  and  her  sense  of  superiority  over  him  had 
brought  her  a  certain  strength  and  calm. 

The  words  stabbed  through  him. 

'^Rose,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly  and  with  horror; 
"you  say  I  don't  love  you." 

"No,  you  don't."  She  spoke  firmly:  all  that  she 
had  discovered  In  her  deep  recesses  speaking  Itself 
clearly.  Womanhood  warmed  through  her,  with  all 
the  pain  of  growth  and  understanding.  Womanhood 
had  come  with  motherhood.  "You  know  you  don't. 
I  didn't  know  It  till  now.  Love  asks  the  chief  care. 
If  you  loved  me  you  wouldn't  put  everything  on  me. 
If  you  loved  me  you  would  give  up  everything  for  me. 
You  know  that.  You  wouldn't  give  me  all  the  danger, 
and  keep  the  safe  side — you  couldn't  do  it.  If  you 
loved  me,  I  would  come  to  you  gladly;  but  then  If  you 
loved  me,  you  wouldn't  ask  me  this.  Richard,  if 
you're  playing  with  yourself,  don't  play  with  me;  don't 
try  and  delude  me  too." 

Something  of  light  flashed  on  him  as  she  spoke. 
But  he  denied  it,  he  would  not  have  It;  fearfully  he 


\ 


Impulsions  91; 

refused  it,  and  returned  In  self-defence  to  his  protes- 
tations. 

"Rose,  I  do  love  you.  Believe  that!  I  swear  by- 
all  I  hold  holy  that  I  love  you.  As  I  look  on  you  now, 
there's  nothing  I  want  so  much  as  you.  Even  in  your 
trouble  youVe  beautiful.  It  would  break  my  heart  to 
leave  you.  I  could  never,  never  forget  you.  Rose, 
will  you  come  with  me?" 

"I  wish  I  could  think  that  were  true — now!"  she 
said. 

"But  it  Is,  It  Is!"  He  protested  with  hands  out- 
stretched. 

Swiftly  she  flashed  on  him — 

"Then  why  don't  you  give  up  anything  for  me?" 
He  shrank  at  her  glance;  and  alone  again,  with  none 
to  contend  with  as  equal,  she  relapsed,  murmuring 
brokenly,  "Not  that  I  want  it  now.  I  don't  think  I 
do.     But  if  you  had  loved  me " 

"I  say  I  do.  I  say  I  do.  Don't  I  offer  you  nearly 
everything?  I  should  live  with  you,  and  be  faithful 
to  you." 

"Richard,  you  don't  love  me;  otherwise  I'd  come. 
Oh,  I  know  I'm  done  for,  anyway.  I  know  that;  I 
know  that.  But  I  couldn't  go  to  you.  I  should  de- 
spise myself  If  I  did." 

She  walled  In  her  grief.  He  made  as  though  to 
comfort  her,  but  she  sprang  from  him,  crying — 

"Don't  touch  me!  Don't  touch  me!"  She  spoke 
as  though  his  touch  would  soil  her — instinct  bade  her 
know  that  It  would  do  so.  Her  anger  was  born  of 
revulsion,  and  it  scorched  him.  "Go!  Why  don't 
you  go?" 

"Are  we  to  part  like  this,  Rose?"  He  spoke 
sheepishly. 

"Yes.     Go.     Go."     She    leant    against   the    lamp- 


gz  Broken  Arcs 

post,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  A  great 
torrent  of  sobs  rose  ready  to  break  away.  But  she 
held  them  back,  and  quivered  with  their  force. 

He  feared  for  her,  but  was  afraid  to  touch  her.  He 
could  see  her  trembling  as  though  a  mighty  ague  had 
seized  on  her  limbs.  He  clenched  and  unclenched  his 
hands.  Then  slowly  he  turned  away;  and  with  slow 
steps  made  down  the  road.  At  every  step  he  left 
nobility,  honour,  possibilities  of  greatness,  behind  him. 
At  every  step  his  soul  shrank,  and  his  blood  paled  from 
richness,  his  thought  from  possibilities  of  purity  and 
loveliness.  Yet  he  held  to  his  resolution  to  do  no 
more  than  he  had  offered,  and  he  began  almost  to  deem 
himself  a  martyr.  So  he  passed.  Here  he  left  no- 
bility, and  if  ever  he  would  be  noble  again  he  would 
have  to  return  here,  back  over  the  ways,  to  take  up  the 
possibilities  given  him.  Whoever  saw  him  thereafter 
saw  the  mark  of  this  hour  on  him  in  poverty  of  soul, 
in  deadliness  of  effort  and  ambition. 

So  he  passed  down  the  street,  and,  reaching  home, 
slept  for  very  weariness.  The  next  morning  he 
thanked  Providence  he  had  not  played  foolishly,  for 
sunlight  made  the  past  nlght^s  scene  seem  sickly. 


XXV 

Two  nights  after  this,  Mrs.  Foggetty  sat  before  her 
kitchen  fire  stitching.  Her  thoughts  had  been  of  Rose; 
but  they  had  passed  off  into  the  somnambulence  of  con- 
tinued monotonous  effort.  A  lamp  stood  on  the  table 
beside  her,  burning  with  steady  light.  Her  head  was 
lowered  over  her  work;  and  a  recurrent  shadow  leapt 
over  the  stone  floor  of  the  kitchen  as  her  hand  darted 
to  and  fro  from  the  snowy  substance  she  held  firmly 


Impulsions  93 

In  her  lap.  Along  the  raftered  roof,  like  a  cluster  of 
large  bats,  hung  a  number  of  hams,  sweet-cured  by 
herself.  On  the  mantelpiece  over  her  head  an  ancient 
time-piece  gave  out  Its  monotonous  seconds,  which, 
with  the  faint  roar  of  the  fire  up  the  flues,  was  the  only 
sound  that  broke  the  uncanny  stillness,  for  the  swift 
shuttle  of  her  hand  was  as  noiseless  as  the  swing  of  the 
planets  In  the  far  ether  of  space. 

Her  thoughts  had  been  of  Rose.  Not  anxious 
thoughts:  peaceful,  rather!  For  her  anxiety  had 
passed.  It  was  obvious  to  her  that  Rose  was  different, 
but  the  main  matter  to  her  was  that  Rose  was  now 
more  continually  at  home,  and  that  therefore  every 
movement  of  hers  was  within  motherly  attention.  Poor 
Mary !  With  what  Indignation  she  would  have  greeted 
the  thought  that  her  attitude  was  all  one  with  the  most 
essential  selfishness!  What  vials  of  anger,  bitter, 
somewhat  shrewish  anger,  would  have  been  outpoured 
on  any  having  the  temerity  to  suggest  that  her  care 
was  In  no  way  for  her  daughter's  welfare,  but  for  her 
own  peace  of  mind!  Nevertheless,  so  It  was.  Rose; 
she  who  was  to  live,  to  do,  to  accomplish,  to  achieve; 
a  vital  being  with  her  own  governing  laws  of  life,  with 
an  Individual  soul  and  destiny:  such  a  person  could 
hardly  have  been  said  to  have  even  concerned  Mary 
hitherto.  But  her  own  daughter — bearing  the  name 
Rose,  happening  also,  by  evil  and  rebellious  chance,  to 
have  different  desires  and  emotions,  but  her  daughter 
nevertheless:  such  a  person  concerned  Mary  much. 

Thus  the  subdued  and  troubled  Rose  of  the  past 
few  weeks  touched  her  pity  but  brought  her  peace. 
Her  shrewd  thought  divined  that  some  trouble  had 
occurred.  Rose's  manner  evinced  It.  But  whatever 
had  happened,  she  now  knew  what  was  happening. 
Rose  was  within  her  control  again.     She  had  endeav- 


94  Broken  Arcs 

oured  to  probe  the  trouble ;  but  Rose's  taciturnity  was 
not  to  be  gainsaid.  Her  defeat  had  not  disturbed 
Mary  much,  since  It  was  rocked  In  the  arms  of  a  re- 
newed peace.  Even  on  her  week-day  evenings  Rose 
had  returned  home,  which  she  had  not  done  since  her 
first  week  away.  So  Mary  deemed  she  had  cause  for 
contentment.  At  other  times  Rose's  bodeful  face,  on 
which  trouble  lowered  like  a  thundercloud  wracking  the 
fair  hue  of  evening,  would  have  harrowed  her;  now  it 
was  but  a  little  bitter  in  the  much  sweet.  The  cloud 
would  pass,  and  evening  be  fair  again;  so,  docile  again, 
she  schooled  her  heart  to  patience. 

A  rare  thing  is  selflessness,  because  hard  to  give! 
Hard  for  any,  but  harder  for  Mary  Foggetty.  The 
troubles  of  this  earth  move  in  circles;  and  judgments 
are  easier  to  suspend  when  it  is  seen  that  each  sinner's 
sin  has  arisen  through  his  or  her  being  sinned  against. 
Who  dare  judge  when  this  is  seen?  Surely  only  the 
brutal,  the  cynical.  Mary  was  a  selfish  and  petulant 
mother.  But  she  once  had  yearned  that  she  herself 
should  be  something,  somewhere;  at  first,  healthily 
yearned  it ;  but  Andrew  had  ever  forbidden  it.  There- 
fore Rose  suffered. 

Now  Mary  sat  stitching,  and  in  the  somnambulence 
of  the  thoughts  the  tides  of  peace  washed  to  and  fro 
over  the  shores  of  her  mind.  To  the  inevitable  mo- 
notony of  the  time-piece  her  thin  hands  passed  swiftly 
to  and  fro  over  her  work,  and  she  did  not  notice  a  pale 
dishevelled  face  that  looked  through  the  further  win- 
dow. The  night  without  was  dark;  and  the  face  looked 
long,  and  then  disappeared. 

Still  Mary  worked;  and  then  it  came  on  her  like  a 
far  memory  that  she  had  heard  the  latchet  of  the  outer 
door  opened.  Looking  round  semi-consclously,  she 
saw  Rose  standing  in  the  open  doorway,  silhouetted 


Impulsions  95 

against    the    outer    night.     She  dropped  her  work. 

"Rose!"  she  cried. 

Rose's  face  was  discoloured  with  tears,  another  tor- 
rent of  which  stood  brimming  In  her  eyes. 

Her  work  fell  from  her  lap  on  to  the  floor  as  she 
went  quickly  towards  Rose,  who  stood  statuesque  in 
the  doorway,  full  of  trouble. 

"Whatever  is  the  matter?"  The  mother's  voice 
rose  In  alarmed  query. 

Down  came  the  tears,  coursing  over  Rose's  face, 
from  their  caverns  of  sorrow. 

"Mother!  Oh,  mother!"  Rose's  hand  held  the 
door-latchet  in  fierce  grip,  but  the  tears  had  their  way. 
She  struggled  to  control  herself;  it  had  been  against 
her  intention  to  be  overwhelmed  in  this  way:  but  the 
dire  repression  of  these  past  days  was  swept  aside  In 
the  dark  torrent  of  her  trouble.  She  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands :  sorrow  would  have  her  know  that  her 
holiest  was  secret. 

"My  child,  my  child,  whatever  is  the  matter?" 

Mary  put  her  arms  about  her  daughter,  and  Rose 
buried  her  face  in  her  mother's  bosom.  Her  sobs  were 
painful  to  hear;  they  shook  her  frame  like  a  tempest. 
Sob  on  sob  broke  from  her.  It  was  terrible.  It  struck 
fear  Into  Mary's  heart.  Like  a  silvern  birch  Rose  was 
shaken  to  the  roots  of  her  being  In  the  dark  night  of 
grief. 

For  a  long,  long  while  it  failed  to  bring  itself  relief, 
till  Mary's  alarm  grew  to  dimensions  of  terror.  She 
breathed  helpless,  feeble  words  of  comfort,  interlaced 
with  perplexed  query.  But  at  length  the  tempest  died 
low,  and  Mary  led  her  daughter  to  a  chair,  fussing 
meanwhile  over  her  busily.  This  was  salutary  more 
than  Mary  thought  it  would  be,  and  for  reasons  she 
little  recked  of. 


^g6  Broken  Arcs 

"But  tell  me,  Rose,  my  child,  whatever  is  the  matter. 
It  perplexes  your  mother's  heart  to  see  you  grieved  so. 
What  is  it,  dear?  Tell  your  old  mother  I'*  Mary 
drew  Rose's  head  to  her  shoulder,  as  she  sat  on  the 
arm  of  Rose's  chair  beside  her. 

"Mother,  I  shouldn't  have  come  here."  Rose  spoke 
with  quivering  words,  through  which  her  grief  shud- 
dered like  earth's  abysmal  steams  finding  vent.  Her 
self  was  in  ruins,  waiting  to  be  builded  anew :  the  fab- 
rics ever  the  same,  but  their  fashion  and  structure  in 
the  lap  of  the  Future,  with  the  bitter  memory  of  the 
Past. 

"Rose  I  Wherever  else  should  you  come  when 
you're  in  trouble?" 

"Oh,  but,  mother,  you  don't  know."  The  tears 
started  again,  quietly  this  time. 

"Whatever  it  is  this  is  the  place  for  you."  Mary 
sought  to  guide  her  to  the  theme.  "But  I'm  waiting 
to  hear." 

"Mother— oh,  I  can't  tell  you." 

"But,  dear,  you  must.  I  insist  on  it."  Mary 
quietly  and  firmly  divested  Rose  of  hat  and  coat,  speak- 
ing the  while. 

"Oh,  how  can  I?  how  can  I?  You're  so  different 
to  all  this." 

"I  have  had  my  troubles,  Rose,  and  they  may  help 
to  understand  yours."  Mary  dimly  thought  Rose  had 
perhaps  been  wounded  in  love,  in  confirmation  of  her 
earlier  instinct.  "But  tell  me  first,  how  is  it  you're  not 
at  work  this  evening?" 

"I  ran  away." 

"You  ran  away?" 

"Yes." 

"But,  what Weren't  they  kind  to  you?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  stand  it.     Mother — — " 


Impulsions  97 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"rm  in  trouble." 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"I  went  to  see  a  doctor  a  week  ago — on  Monday — 
I  couldn't  understand  It." 

Dim  forebodings  struck  on  Mary,  and  chilled  her 
heart. 

"Yes,  dear:  go  on!" 

"He  told  me "  Rose's  head  sank. 

"Tell  me,  Rose." 

"I  have  a  child  coming." 

"Rose  I"  Mary's  voice  rang  sharp,  and  sounded 
cleavage. 

"Oh,  mother!     Oh,  mother!" 

Silence  furled  the  two  as  they  sat  side  by  side  facing 
this  thing.  A  simple  fact  of  Nature,  and  it  spoke  all 
this  calamity.  Strange  world!  Mary  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"Who  was  it.  Rose?" 

Rose  lifted  her  head,  and  gazed  at  the  fire. 

"Mother,  I  thought  everything  of  him.  He  was  on 
a  pedestal  to  me." 

There  spoke  the  centre  woe :  the  ruin  of  her  heart ! 

"But,  Rose,  who  was  he?" 

"Mother,  don't  ask  me !     No  one  you  know." 

"Dear,  haven't  I  a  right  to  know?" 

Rose  lifted  her  head  firmly,  and  clenched  her  hands 
as  she  spoke — 

"No,  mother,  you  haven't." 

"Surely  your  mother  has  a  right." 

"No,  mother,  she  hasn't." 

The  third  personal  pronoun  spoke  of  a  world  own- 
ing its  own  laws,  remote  from  jurisdiction  of  Wild- 
brook  Farm.  Wisdom  came  on  Mary,  and  she  relin- 
quished her  query. 


98  Broken  Arcs 

Nevertheless,  the  note  of  cleavage  was  in  the  air. 
It  struck  with  a  chill  air  on  Rose.  But  where  else 
was  she  to  go?  To  escape  from  her  own  reeling 
thought  had  she  come  here.  She  had  fled  from  her- 
self, and  the  cleavage  was  driving  her  in  upon  herself. 
It  struck  Mary  too,  and  she  blamed  her  daughter  for 
lack  of  confidence.  Yet  this  was  no  occasion  for 
blame;  and  she  threw  it  off  to  immerse  herself  anew 
in  this  common  calamity  fallen  on  them. 

Thus  slowly  she  drew  the  whole  tale  from  Rose, 
though  to  tread  the  road  again  in  thought  was  to  Rose 
like  the  scraping  of  an  open  wound.  At  length  it  was 
all  told,  all  save  the  innermost  details  that  were  to 
Rose  as  impossible  to  tell  as  it  would  be  to  breathe 
away  life  itself.  But  to  herself,  in  her  own  thought, 
they  passed  in  review,  and  new  lights  shone  from  the 
incidents  that  were  a  shameless  exposing  of  the  one- 
time lover.  Each  incident,  each  detail,  was  pregnant 
with  new  cruel  meaning.  The  bare  recital  made  him 
seem  more  and  more  a  malignant  plotter,  but  her  in- 
stinct spoke  out  loudly  that  he  was  not.  The  memory 
of  his  kisses  warm  on  her  lips  she  cherished  dearly  as 
token  of  some  love  in  him;  but  occasion  interpreted 
them  bitterly  as  lustful  exultation.  Thought  reeled  at 
the  twin  exposition. 

The  recital  aged  her.  If  it  dried  her  tears,  it 
seared  the  kindliness  in  her.  Her  strength  found 
refuge  in  bitterness  and  anger;  but  the  tears  hovered 
near  to  refresh  her  parched  young  soul.  After  long 
silence,  Mary  spoke — 

**Well,  dear,  you're  our  child  still."  She  had  so 
long  left  reality  that  she  found  it  necessary  to  say  this. 
Had  it  been  deeply  true  it  had  not  been  found  neces- 
sary to  say.  *'But  it's  terrible.  I  don't  know  what 
your  father  will  say." 


Impulsions  99 

"Oh,  father  mustn't  know.  Don't  tell  father.  I'll 
go."  Rose  spoke  In  sudden  alarm,  and  arose  from 
her  chair  to  take  her  hat. 

Mary  was  before  her  though,  and  forced  her  back. 

"Rose,  don't  be  silly!  Where  can  you  go?  Are 
you  going  back  to  the  Sims'?" 

"Never!  I  can't.  It  was  their  doctor  I  went  to. 
Besides " 

The  space  spoke  unutterable  volumes. 

"That  decides  it  then.  I  don't  know  how  we'll 
manage,  but  you  must  stay  here.  It'll  mean,  of  course, 
our  leaving  Oldhamlet.  Dear,  dear  me !  how  troubles 
come  one  after  another!  Still,  Rose,  you  go  up  to 
your  room.  Sleep  If  you  can.  I'll  speak  with  your 
father.  No,  don't  make  It  worse  by  talking.  Isn't 
it  bad  enough  as  It  Is?  Go,  child!  Your  father  may 
be  here  any  minute.     Leave  It  to  me!" 

So  Rose  went;  and  though  she  lay  down,  the  fury  of 
her  anguish  found  refuge  In  neither  tears  nor  the 
weariness  of  sleep. 

Mary  sat  In  the  chair  Rose  had  vacated,  moaning 
her  trouble  over  before  the  fire.  It  took  no  coherence ; 
it  was  but  a  devastating  turbulence  of  perplexity  and 
pain. 

When  Andrew  came  in  It  was  apparent  even  to  his 
ratloclnatlve  thought  that  something  was  amiss. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mary?"  he  asked. 

"Rose  Is  here,"  said  Mary,  numbly. 

"Oh!  Not  111,  I  hope."  Vexation  rang  in  his 
voice. 

"She  is,  and  she  isn't."  Mary  groped  for  words  to 
speak. 

"Mary,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  vex  me  with  riddles. 
You  know  how  111  I  can  afford  an  illness,  just  at  this 
present  moment." 


100  Broken  Arcs 

It  was  an  untimely  beginning,  but  it  caused  Mary 
to  rise  to  a  sudden  strength  that  years  (and  a  husband 
in  the  years,  that  found  escape  from  tenderness  to- 
wards her  by  a  rapture  that  pretended  to  be  other- 
worldly, but  was  most  mundane,  being  bound  by  the 
world  of  Andrew  Foggetty)  had  whipped  out  of  her. 

"Andrew,  it  doesn't  matter  a  bit  whether  you're 
vexed  or  not.  WeVe  got  a  big  trouble  to  face,  and  it 
concerns  Rose." 

Andrew  stared  aghast.  If  some  one  were  to  speak 
his  thoughts,  they  would  be  that  he  had  considered  this 
pugilistic  Mary  vanquished  finally  years  ago.  He 
would  deny  the  thought;  yet  it  was  so.  He  braced 
himself  to  conflict. 

"Mary,  you  know  I  don't  like  scenes.  They  upset 
my  soul,  and  this  frail  life  of  ours  isn't  worth  it.  When 
you've  got  over  this  display  of  temper,  then  we  can 
talk."  He  went  over  and  took  his  weekly  paper  of 
expositions,  and  ensconced  himself  in  his  favourite 
chair. 

"Andrew!"  Mary's  voice  broke  the  silence.  Tears 
were  in  her  eyes,  unknown  visitors  these  many  days. 
She  was  broken  again,  and  it  boded  ill  for  Rose.  "You 
don't  know  what  trouble  has  come  on  us." 

"Where  is  Rose?" 

"In  her  room." 

'75  she  ill?" 

Silence  held  a  tension  of  steel  between  them  awhile. 

"Some  man  has  betrayed  her!"  Mary's  voice  was 
fearful. 

'What !"     Andrew's  paper  fluttered  to  the  ground. 


"That  is  so." 


"Rose  has  sinned?" 

"I  didn't  say  so."     Mary's  voice  stumbled  as  she 
spoke.     "I  said  she  had  been  betrayed." 


Impuhions  loi 

"Mary,  don't  let  us  have  any  Jesuitical  casuistry,  it 
has  the  mark  of  the  beast  on  it.  It  Is  anathema 
maranatha;  that  is  to  say,  anathema — maranatha  was 
an  Arabic  watchword  to  the  Corinthians  telling  them 
of  the  Lord's  coming." 

"Andrew,  she's  our  child." 

*'I  disown  her.  She  is  none  of  mine.  Here  I  come 
from  a  peaceful  meeting  of  prayer,  and  on  my  return 
I  find  sin  has  entered  my  household.  Do  you  know 
what  this  would  mean  to  me?  I  would  lose  the  pre- 
eminence the  godly  brethren  have  been  led  to  give 
me.  It  shall  never  be  said  I  held  traffic  with  sin. 
If  thy  right  hand  offend  thee,  cut  it  off.  And  I 
do  it  even  with  my  own  daughter.  Yes,  I  disown 
her." 

"And  what  is  Rose  to  do?"  Grief  rose  on  a  cres- 
cendo in  Mary's  question. 

"I  don't  know.  That  is  her  matter  with  the  God 
against  whom  she  has  sinned." 

"We  can't  leave  It  like  that." 

"Not  only  can  we;  we  must.  What  right  have  we 
to  interfere  with  the  ways  of  Divine  wisdom?  God 
alone  is  judge,  and  we  must  leave  these  things  to  Him. 
Besides,  think  what  It  would  mean  to  us!  It  would 
ruin  us." 

"Is  it  the  ruin  you  are  thinking  of,  or  the  sin,  An- 
drew?" Rebellion  raised  Its  head  again  In  Mary's 
question. 

Instinct  led  Andrew  to  meet  it  by  not  denying  the 
double  nature  of  his  objection. 

"Both,"  said  he.  "The  sin  first,  then  the  ruin.  We 
are  bound  In  faithfulness  to  God  to  punish  sin,  to  dis- 
tinguish between  sheep  and  goats — though  that  Is  the 
judgment  of  the  living  nations,  not  the  Great  White 
Throne.     We  must  cut  loose  sin  and  all  Its  ways.    Nor 


102  Broken  Arcs 

must  we  jeopardize  such  position  as  God  may  have 
given  us  to  use  for  His  advantage/' 

"Do  you  mean  we  must  send  Rose  away,  alone,  An- 
drew?" 

The  horror  in  her  voice  caused  him  to  wince;  but 
he  faced  the  issue,  knowing  well  that  years  had  robbed 
her  of  the  spirit  to  thwart  him. 

*'Yes,  that  is  just  what  I  do  mean.  She  must  not 
even  spend  this  night  in  the  house.  Daylight  might 
discover  it  all,  and  undo  us." 

''Andrew!" 

''It's  no  use  rebelling  against  the  Lord's  will,  Mary. 
His  mind  in  a  matter  of  this  kind  is  very  clear.  For 
my  part,  I  must  even  refuse  to  see  her  again.  You 
have  already  seen  her,  and  so  you  do  not  contaminate 
yourself  further — not  much,  that  is — by  seeing  her 
again."     He  took  a  sovereign  from  his  purse.     "Give 

her  this  for  her  railway  fare.     I  don't  even  know 

But  yes,  give  it  to  her,  even  if  I  implicate  myself.  I'll 
be  back  in  an  hour's  time.  By  that  time  the  house 
must  be  clear." 

"Andrew !"  She  called  after  him.  But  he  was  gone. 

In  a  minute  he  reappeared,  saying — 

"Now,  Mary,  understand  me!  There  must  be  no 
flinching  in  this.  We  must  do  God's  will,  whatever  it 
costs  us.  I  don't  wish  to  be  harsh,  but  if  I  find  her 
here  on  my  return,  her  expulsion  will  be  worse  than  if 
you  had  the  doing  of  it."  Which  said,  he  was  gone 
again. 

Mary  moaned  her  grief  awhile,  then  went  upstairs 
and  broke  it  gently  to  Rose.  Rose  sprang  up  from 
the  bed. 

"Mother,  I'm  glad,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  couldn't 
bear  to  see  him  again.  It  would  kill  me."  "Him" 
indicated  her  father. 


Impulsions  103 

''But,  Rose,  whatever  will  you  do?" 

The  prospect  of  the  future  stared  blankly  at  Rose. 
Fortunately  grief  numbs  the  thought,  otherwise 
thought  had  crippled  endeavour  in  her. 

"I  don't  know,  mother;  I  don't  know.     But  I  must 

"He  gave  me  this  to  give  you."  Mary  held  out  the 
sovereign. 

"Tell  him  I  don't  want  it." 

"But  what  will  you  do?" 

"Mother,  I  don't  know.  I've  got  to  go,  you  see, 
for  all  that." 

Together  they  went  down  into  the  kitchen.  And  as 
Mary  found  her  daughter  a  meal,  which  Rose  made  a 
show  at  eating  to  soothe  her  mother,  a  sudden  thought 
fell  on  Mary.  Leaving  Rose  to  her  meal  she  rushed 
upstairs;  and,  returning,  thrust  a  withered  old  purse 
Into  Rose's  coat  pocket. 

"Be  very  careful  of  that,  dear!"  she  murmured, 
"there's  money  in  It.  I  have  put  it  away  in  case  An- 
drew should  ever  need  it." 

"Mother,  I  can't  take  It;  I  can't." 

"Rose,  my  child,  for  your  mother's  sake.  And  see, 
dear!  let  me  know,  be  sure  to  let  me  know,  how  you 
are  managing.  For  my  sake,  child!  My  heart,  you 
know,  will  be  bleeding  for  you.  And  forgive  me  if 
ever  I  have  been  unkind  or  irritable  with  you.  That 
man  has  opened  my  eyes.  I  hope  I  have  never  been 
like  that  to  you,  Rosie;  I  fear  I  have." 

"Mother,  don't." 

Mother  and  daughter  mingled  tears.  Afterwards 
Rose  knew  that  they  had  never  been  so  near  or  kin. 
Over  their  preparations  for  departure,  they  breathed 
the  same  breath,  and  moved  In  the  same  thought. 

And  after  Rose  was  gone  Mary  took  her  old  chair 


104  Broken  Arcs 

and  burst  into  a  torrent  of  bitter  tears.  Thereafter 
she  never  went,  with  or  without  Andrew,  to  his  Meet- 
ing House ;  and  Andrew,  curiously,  never  had  the  heart 
to  do  more  than  timidly  ask  her.  And  even  this  was 
shrivelled  in  time  by  her  cutting  negative. 


XXVI 

The  night  was  kind  to  Rose.  The  harsh  synchroni- 
zation of  inner  sorrow  to  outer  gloom,  forebore  its 
fury  for  her.  The  air  remembered  that  Autumn  was 
erecting  its  gorgeous  porch  for  a  stern  and  snowy 
queen  to  enter  through  upon  the  earth.  In  truth,  the 
first  remembrancers  of  the  far  cavalcade  of  the  pinch- 
ing imps  of  frost  were  already  riding  the  lazy  wind 
that  flew.  The  night  was  dark.  Stars  in  innumerable 
hosting  had  doubtless  swum  out  over  the  sombre  ocean 
of  night;  but  weeping  mists,  upcalled  from  pond  and 
stream,  floated  to  obscure  the  stellar  congregations. 
Through  the  dim  gloom  each  dell  and  declivity  could 
be  seen  nursing  its  pool  of  vapour,  like  a  monstrous 
cup  brimmed  over  with  sacred  distillation.  At  stead- 
fast intervals  along  the  road  tall  trees  sprang  swiftly 
up  from  modest  hedgerows,  and  disappeared  into 
misty  night.  The  mists  were  in  revelry.  Mystic 
shadowy  daughters  of  gloom,  they  danced  upon  the 
soft^wind.  Fleeing,  they  chased  each  other:  chasing, 
they  fled.  Through  the  trees  they  passed  spiritously, 
and  sighed  a  wailful  soft  laughter  as  they  did  so.  And 
when  they  had  passed  and  gone,  the  trees  wept  un- 
quenchable tears  upon  the  new-fallen  leaves  below.  An 
aloof  farmhouse  loomed  gigantic  through  the  gloom; 
and,  surprised  at  so  sharp  a  discovery,  fled    swiftly 


Impulsions  105 

through  Its  enveloping  mist.  Sad  it  was;  yet,  there- 
withal, tender  and  not  unkindly. 

So  through  the  night  Rose  passed,  careless,  heedless 
whither  she  went.  A  bundle  of  clothes  that  motherly 
care  had  thrust  on  her  attentions  was  clasped  firmly  in 
her  left,  while  her  right  hand  reposed  In  the  pocket  of 
her  coat  clutching  a  worn  purse  that  a  last  injunction 
had  bade  her  take  care  of.  Thus  blindly,  unwittingly, 
she  guarded  her  property.  Chaos  had  fallen  on  her 
thought. 

Maybe  the  mists  that  fled  each  other  before  her  un- 
regardlng  vision  were  in  part  responsible  for  it,  but 
through  her  troubled  mind  there  passed  shadows  and 
unintelligible  glooms.  She  had  left  Wildbrook  Farm 
in  tearful  sorrow,  avoiding  Oldhamlet,  and  striking  in- 
stinctively away  from  the  distant  Ipstowe.  But  her 
will  had  given  over  its  functions  to  her  automaton  of 
hopeless  action:  grief,  perplexity  and  fierce  strain  had 
dazed  her.  Her  brisk  step  had  settled  to  an  irrespon- 
sible and  wearied  plod. 

Midnight  still  saw  her  striking  on  and  on.  But 
before  night  had  narrowed  to  morning  she  had  sunk  by 
the  roadside  through  sheer  fatigue.  To  say  she  slept 
would  be  to  err :  as  much  to  err  as  to  say  that  she  was 
awake  as  she  walked.  She  changed  one  manner  of 
fitful  sleep  for  another:  and  both  racked  her  over- 
burdened mind. 

In  truth,  her  being  was  in  ruins.  The  mind  was 
sound,  but  there  was  none  to  direct.  A  new  being 
would  arise;  but  the  old  being  was  of  the  shades  of 
yesterday.  Her  young  ardent  hope  in  her  lover  had 
soared  the  coerulean,  to  be  winged  cruelly.  Resolutely, 
it  had  fluttered  aloft  again,  though  burdened  with  a 
heavier  weight  of  anxiety  than  she  had  ever  known  to 
bear  yet.     Heavily  it  had  sustained  its  burden,  seek- 


io6  Broken  Arcs 

ing  to  win  itself  back  to  the  upper  heights  of  day :  but 
the  archer  Despair  had  known  no  mercy;  another  bit- 
ter shaft  had  felled  her  to  earth  again,  with  her  new 
burden.  Dazed,  sorely  wounded,  she  had  lain  awhile; 
then,  scarce  knowing  what  she  did,  she  had  eschewed 
flight,  painfully  seeking  a  one-time  nest.  Summarily 
evicted  thence,  she  knew  not  now  why  she  lived. 

She  scarcely  lived.  It  might  truly  be  said,  she  did 
not  live,  for  there  was  no  "she"  to  live.  Her  body 
took  over  direction  of  Its  functions  till  such  time  as  an 
elder  "she"  should  raise  its  maturer,  perchance 
harsher,  head  from  the  earth :  elder  in  growth  of  wis- 
dom, elder  in  bitterness  of  wisdom,  elder  in  disillusion- 
ment, elder  in  sorrow,  maybe  elder  in  strength  and  res- 
olution. To  deny  that  this  should  be  is  to  deny  life : 
and  to  deny  life  is  the  axe  at  the  root  of  sanity.  It  is 
needful  ruins  come ;  and  though  the  Woe  be  heaped  on 
them  by  whom  such  ruins  come.  It  follows  not  that  any 
woe  fall  for  perpetual  disaster  on  the  ruined.  It  Is  the 
touch  of  a  primary  faith  to  believe  that  they  who  ruin 
are  in  worse  case  than  those  who  are  ruined.  Wisdom 
may  come  hardly  to  the  latter,  but  her  lip  will  curl  in 
scorn  at  the  former.  A  strange  goddess  is  Wisdom! 
Her  feet  tread  through  disasters  while  her  brow  is 
arched  with  the  heavens.  She  comes  with  beauty,  and 
her  garments  are  lovely;  but  she  comes  up  the  ways  of 
Sorrow.  Far-seeing,  she  is  ruthless:  she  forswears 
easier  roads  of  travel.  Steadily  she  regards  Life,  and 
sees  it  purposeful.  She  divides  her  children  from  the 
children  of  Folly:  they  who  live,  wakeful  and  keen, 
from  them  who  sleep  In  sloth,  ease,  munificence  or 
monotony.  She  knows  the  first  as  her  children  because 
they  believe  in  Life:  she  spurns  ironically  the  others 
because  they  cling  fearfully  to  existence.  She  knows 
well  that  Folly's  hands  are  full  of  sleek  and  bounteous 


Impulsions  107 

things,  because  her  destiny  Is  Futility:  but  in  her  own 
hands  Is  a  rod  because  her  destiny  Is  exceeding  beau- 
tiful. 

But  little  recked  Rose  of  this  as  morning  stepped 
with  golden  brow  and  ruddy  hair  over  a  gentle  row  of 
dewy  downs,  throwing  a  silver  beam  on  her  tear- 
stained  face!  Slowly  she  woke,  and  gazed  heavily 
about  her.  Dully  she  turned  to  thought ;  and  remem- 
brance with  a  sharp  pang  rushed  on  her. 

She  knew  not  where  she  was;  In  fact,  this  mattered 
little,  for  she  did  not  know  what  to  do.  Painfully, 
for  her  body  was  sore,  she  raised  herself.  An  Inner 
instinct  took  her  on  In  continuation  of  the  way  she  had 
come  the  previous  night,  for  she  remembered  the 
weary  walk  but  vaguely.  She  walked  quickly,  for  she 
was  deathly  cold.  And  as  heat  came  back  over  her 
limbs,  with  It  came  back  some  vigour  of  determina- 
tion. Presently  she  sat  down  on  a  milestone,  that  told 
her  she  was  taking  her  way  In  towards  the  mid- 
lands, and  took  some  vague  reckoning  of  her  posi- 
tion. 

What  to  do  next,  that  was  the  Insistent  voice  that 
beat  through  her  brain,  calling  her  to  a  resolution  she 
was  not  yet  In  possession  of.  What  to  do,  where  to 
go,  how  to  act — insurgently  they  flowed  on  her  with 
the  renewed  motion  of  her  blood.  But  she  could  not 
resolve.  Resolution  defied  her,  though  she  chased  it 
feebly.  Morning  was  waxing  on  the  earth,  as  the  sun 
climbed  his  fields  of  blue.  It  Incited  her  to  joy;  but 
her  deadness  of  emotion  mocked  at  felicity.  It  called 
to  Life  to  exult,  and  to  Its  call  the  birds  gave  back  a 
piping  chorus,  vaguely  lamenting  their  earlier  choruses 
of  strength.  But  it  did  not  touch  Rose.  It  seemed  to 
her  unreasoning  Instinct  that  for  months  yet  (at  least) 
she  could  do  nothing.     She  had  sought  a  harbourage, 


io8  Broken  Arcs 

but  the  storm  had  leapt  the  bar  and  driven  her  forth 
for  Its  relentless  sport. 

The  rumble  of  a  cart  struck  on  her  ears,  and,  as 
though  frightened,  she  brushed  her  hair  back,  and  col- 
lected herself,  so  as  to  present  at  least  some  air  of 
self-possession.  Confusedly  she  gazed  at  the  two- 
wheeled  cart  that  rolled  to  a  stop  opposite  her. 

''Well!"  an  astonished  voice  interjected  above  her 
line  of  vision. 

Looking  up  she  saw  a  face  vaguely  and  distantly 
familiar  regarding  her  with  round  astonishment.  She 
knew  that  to  fence  inqulsitiveness  she  should  ask  some 
question;  but  she  had  no  question  to  ask.  She  knew 
not  where  the  road  led,  she  had  no  destination,  she  had 
neither  plans  nor  intentions.  She  gazed  up  at  him: 
tear-stained,  perplexed,  dishevelled  elegance,  with 
strange  beauty  as  of  a  hunted  deer. 

"Well,  I  never!     Lost  yourself?" 

She  clutched  at  his  question. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  have." 

"Where  are  you  going  to?" 

The  name  on  the  milestone  swam  before  her  memory 
to  rescue  her  perplexity.     She  uttered  it. 

"Ryford?  Lord  love  the  lass,  but  you're  a  terrible 
journey  from  there.  Small  wonder  you  missed  your 
way."  Kindliness  glowing  in  his  voice  touched  his 
laughter  with  a  soft  hand. 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  was  looking  for  a  railway  sta- 
tion." 

"Oh  I  But  you're  a  bit  out  of  the  track  of  railways 
here.  YouVe  sort  of  in  between  the  lines.  Your 
shortest  way'd  be  to  go  along  this  way  to  Oldhamlet. 
But  It's  a  goodlsh  step  out;  and  I  can  see  youVe  been 
doing  a  bit  of  walking.  I'm  going  there,  if  you'd  like 
a  lift." 


Impulsions  109 

*'0h,  no,  I  don't  want  to  go  back  there  I" 

"Go  back  there  r 

It  was  a  misstep,  but  she  had  not  the  mental  agility 
to  rectify  it.     She  let  it  pass,  and  said  doggedly — 

"I  want  to  go  on  this  way." 

*'But  it's  ten  mile  that  way.'' 

"Thank  you!     Is  it  straight  on?" 

"Pretty  near!  But  look  here,  what's  a  lass  like  you 
doing  alone  like  this,  so  tired-like,  and  so  far  from  any- 
where?    Where  do  you  come  from?" 

She  made  him  no  reply. 

"Do  you  come  from  Oldhamlet?"  he  asked  again, 
attempting  to  assume  a  firm  kindliness. 

"Then  I'm  to  go  straight  on  this  road?"  A  certain 
dignity  rang  in  her  voice,  and  flowed  in  her  manner, 
speaking  hopefully  for  a  future  resurrection  in  her. 

"Well,  yes.     No  harm  meant." 

"Thank  you!"  she  said,  rising. 

"If  you  like  to  come  back  a  short  way,  you  can  have 
some  breakfast  at  my  farm.     And  a  tidy-up,  like." 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  passing  on.  "I  think  I 
have  some  here."  She  lifted  her  bundle.  "Good- 
morning!" 

"Well,  that  beats  all !  Good-morning !"  He  added 
the  salutation  hastily  as  she  passed  out  of  earshot. 

His  cart  rumbled  on,  as  the  wave  passed  along  the 
reins  reached  his  steed,  but  he  still  gazed  after  her  re- 
treating figure. 

"Where  have  I  seen  that  girl  before?"  He  paused 
perplexedly.  Then,  long  after,  he  broke  out,  "Not 
Foggetty's  daughter,  surely!  Can't  be,"  he  added,  in 
dismissal  of  an  impossible  idea.  "But  I  must  say  it 
was  wonderful  like  her!" 


no  Broken  Arcs 


XXVII 


All  that  day  Rose  wandered  unhappily,  avoiding 
houses  single  or  clustered  with  an  Instinctive  horror. 
She  shunned  human  beings.  The  great  rolling  heavens 
above  her  gave  her  some  joy;  they  breathed  their  wide 
felicity.  The  surging  white  masses  of  cloud,  driven 
up  over  the  blue  on  a  rising  south-west  wind,  furled  a 
high  magnificence  over  her  head,  and  awed  her  to 
some  peace.  But  the  sight  of  a  human  being  dispelled 
It  all.  Her  faith  In  her  kind  had  been  shattered;  and 
a  wise  Instinct  bade  her  spirit  absent  Itself  from  Its 
associates  In  life,  that  thus.  In  seclusion.  It  might  mend 
the  rends  In  Its  fabric.  Such  rends  might  only  be  made 
good  by  webs  spun  from  within,  and  wrought  subtly 
into  the  general  texture;  and  this  was  a  work  In  no 
way  to  be  hurried. 

Among  the  clothes  her  mother  had  put  together  she 
had  found  some  food,  and  of  this  she  had  partaken. 
Acquaintance  with  the  Interior  of  the  motley  purse  had 
wrung  her  to  tears  anew.  It  had  contained  nearly  ten 
pounds  In  note  and  coin,  stealthy  savings  for  many  a 
day. 

That  night  she  drew  nearer  to  humanity,  seeking 
shelter  In  an  ancient  barn,  using  straw  and  some  sacks 
for  warmth.  But  cruel  dreams  visited  her  now.  Her 
lover  taunted  her  with  his  sometime  kindness,  haunted 
her  with  the  figure  of  her  hopes.  Sleep,  Instead  of 
cradling  her  in  forgetfulness,  led  her  through  that  past 
which  it  was  her  business  to  bury.  Once  or  twice  she 
woke  feeling  a  lover's  arms  about  her,  but  the  wind 
sighing  through  the  crevices  and  cracks  of  the  barn 
reminded  her  that  she  had  dreamt  of  a  joy  that  had 
turned  to  deepest  bitterness,  like  luscious  fruit  becom- 


Impulsions  lit 

ing  ashes  beneath  the  tongue.  She  slept  again;  but 
only  to  wander  through  some  fresh  felicity  of  the 
past. 

At  morn  she  wandered  out,  keeping  ware  of  human 
beings  with  an  observation  that  was  almost  crafty. 
The  face  of  Nature  soothed  her;  but  Nature  was  a 
shrewd  nurse  withal,  for  her  thermometers  had  known 
an  early  declension  towards  the  regions  of  frost.  Seek- 
ing, and  finding,  a  stream  for  her  ablutions,  Rose  won 
herself  to  something  of  presentibility,  and  devoured 
the  last  of  her  viands.  Then  she  gave  the  day  to 
wandering,  tortured  by  glimpsed  remembrance  of  her 
night's  dreams. 

XXVIII 

In  truth,  a  deadly  combat  waxed  in  Rose.  Memory 
would  ruin  her,  devastate  her;  Nature  would  soothe, 
refashion  her.  At  times,  it  must  be  said,  her  mind 
well-nigh  reeled  at  the  impact  of  the  contending  hosts. 
Another  nature  would  not  have  passed  to  such  devas- 
tation, it  is  true;  but  another  rature  had  not  known 
her  strength  of  sorrow.  Her  strength  was  her  aid, 
and  her  undoing.  She  had  put  out  her  whole  strength 
to  wrestle  with  Life;  but  Life  evaded  her,  and  she 
wrestled  with  herself.  The  song  sung  lately  in  her  ears 
was  no  mere  love  lullaby,  but  a  noble  chant  having 
Life  for  theme.  And  as  Night  brought  back  its 
sounding  periods,  and  Day  its  dire  cacophony,  she 
clutched  her  hands  and  called  aloud  for  very  pain. 

She  had  aroused  curiosity  of  a  transient  kind  as  she 
passed  the  larger  thoroughfares  of  the  country.  But 
inasmuch  as  she  went  on,  striking  ever  forward,  no 
rumours  gathered  round  her,  to  reduplicate  themselves 
and  grow  fantastic  by  curious  addition. 


112  Broken  Arcs 

Fellow-passengers  along  the  roads  made  themselves 
known  to  her  quick  instinct  long  ere  she  sighted  them; 
with  these  she  held  herself  in  hardy  constraint, 
passing  by  with  bowed  head.  But  when  she  had  long 
stretches  of  the  road  to  herself — more  particularly  in 
the  lanes  that  preference  chose  her — she  would  moan 
aloud  in  her  anguish,  hot  tears  coursing  her  cheeks, 
tears  not  of  grief  or  pain,  but  of  infinite  soul-torture. 
This  much  was  she  unhinged,  for  the  devastation  of 
her  soul  had  passed  beyond  its  causes,  and  enveloped 
her  whole  being.  The  storm,  once  roused,  rose  on 
its  own  impetus  to  a  tempest  that  crashed  relentlessly 
through  her  mind,  leaving  a  sad  trail  of  wreckage. 

Hunger  drove  her  to  towns  but  rarely,  for  she  would 
purchase  herself  what  of  food  she  needed,  sufficient  to 
last  her  for  some  couple  of  days,  and  then  she  would 
make  out  for  the  bosom  of  earth.  Barns  failed  too 
often;  and  she  would  turn  to  the  nearest  inn,  lodging 
there  for  the  night.  Her  beauty  hung  out  as  a  tempt- 
ing bait  for  molestation;  but  something  of  wildness  in 
her  spoke  the  fear  that  forbids.  Don  Juan  hath  ever 
a  subtle  instinct,  on  which  it  is  his  wont  to  rely.  Sel- 
dom he  errs;  and  when  he  does,  experience  is  stored 
up  for  instinct  to  thrive  by.  The  true  Don  Juan  never 
courts  inevitable  spurning;  it  quenches  the  unctuous 
self-pride  on  which  he  grows  fair  and  buxom:  and 
such  marks  of  inevitable  spurning  were  printed  in  large 
characters  over  Rose.  Subtle,  indefinable  marks,  yet 
not  to  be  mistaken. 

Once  only  did  any  venture,  though  many  had  hun- 
gered. And  this  man  was  haunted  by  her  long  days 
after.  She  had  just  come  into  a  town  intending  to 
lodge  there  that  night.  It  was  her  wont  in  this  strange 
wild  wandering  to  turn  to  her  slumber  with  the  birds, 
and  be  awake  and  afoot  soon  after  dawn.     As  she 


Impulsions  113 

searched  for  a  simple  hostelry,  an  elegant  gallant 
floated  over  to  her. 

"Excuse  me!"  said  he. 

She  drew  up,  startled,  trembling. 

"I  think  we  have  met  before,"  graciously  began  he, 
noting  her  trembling,  and  complimenting  his  instinct 
for  weakness  in  her. 

She  regarded  him,  and  a  wild  look  grew  in  her  eyes, 
that  caused  him  to  feel  something  less  assured  of  his 
instinct.  With  a  motion  of  anger  and  scorn  (new  dis- 
play of  emotions  these,  in  Rose,  called  up  from  possi- 
bilities to  fire  of  self  these  days)  she  turned  from  him 
and  made  as  though  to  pass  him. 

He  slipped  beside  her. 

''Don't  you  know  me?"  he  asked. 

"No!"  Steel  shot  from  her  eyes  to  accompany  the 
monosyllable. 

"Then  don't  you  think  this  an  admirable  time 
to "  he  began. 

She  turned  on  him,  with  hand  slightly  raised.  It 
was  her  thought  to  strike  him.  But  her  hand  fell  to 
her  side,  and  her  thought  paled  from  anger  to  sorrow. 
He  had  feared  her  stroke,  for  her  intention  was  obvi- 
ous; and  he  wondered  at  the  two  tears  that  beaded  her 
cheeks  beneath  her  swelling  eyes.  With  a  gesture  of 
infinite  dignity  she  turned  him  by. 

"Good  Heavens!  What  a  rum  girl!  But  some- 
thing's the  matter  with  her.  Looks  wild!"  Muttering 
which  he  passed  on  his  way. 

And  indeed  she  had  looked  wild;  like  a  sunset  suc- 
ceeding to  storm  and  tempest.  Her  sorrow  had  per- 
plexed him,  and  her  anger  had  corroded  his  gaiety. 
It  was  with  sorrow  and  anger  she,  too,  found  an  inn, 
and  turned  to  her  bed.  A  familiar  incident  in  the 
ways  of  towns  and  cities;  common  enough,  yet  it  sent 


114  Broken  Arcs 

him  on  his  way  abashed  and  disturbed,  while  It  flung 
her  Into  a  fit  of  torture.  It  was  a  fresh  signal  waved 
before  her  eyes  that  the  great  things  of  life  were  the 
sport  of  men.  Anger  bit  her;  strong  uncontrollable 
anger  that  tossed  her  to  and  fro  in  her  bed,  and  work- 
ing its  way  into  an  eventual  sleep,  branded  her  with 
the  mark  of  fierce  hate. 

She  had  avoided  Mankind  merely,  hitherto;  but 
when  she  awoke  early  the  following  morning  she  fled 
it.  The  seeds  of  a  new  distemper  were  sown  In  her 
mind. 


XXIX 

She  was  helpless,  homeless;  let  that  be  noted  for 
a  fit  understanding  of  her.  Had  she  been  near  the 
warm,  if  vagarious,  heart  of  humanity,  its  richness 
would  have  soothed  her  particular  grief.  It  is  the 
inevitable  instinct  of  sorrow  to  lose  itself  In  the  mass 
of  a  multitude ;  to  feel  it  washing  about  it  like  a  cleans- 
ing sea.  But  her  faith  in  humanity  had  been  devas- 
tated; for  all  she  had  known  of  humanity  had  deserted 
her.  She  was  alone;  and  every  renewed  impetus  of 
her  sorrow  drove  her  to  greater  loneliness.  She 
erected  her  loneliness  about  her  as  a  defending  void. 
It  became  so  acute  that  It  often  took  the  very  pangs  of 
hunger  to  drive  her  to  the  clusters  where  humanity 
defended  Itself  from  the  isolations  without. 

Her  mind  grew  acute  and  sensitive.  She  grew  to 
fear  the  night  of  sleep.  She  only  found  relief  in  rapid 
movement.  Motherhood  demonstrated  Itself  In  her. 
What  it  meant  of  discomfort  was  a  fragment  in  the 
larger  bulk  of  soul-torture  It  brought  her.  Fierce 
irritabilities  seized  her.     Often  she  walled  aloud  in  the 


Impulsions  ll^ 

utter  loneliness  of  anxiety.  She  had  threaded  her  way 
through  Bedfordshire  with  its  comfortable  pastures, 
and  was  now  In  Buckinghamshire,  on  the  hills  above 
the  valley  of  ancient  Thames.  There  she  would  sit, 
gazing  over  the  vistas  as  though  they  were  her  own 
questionable  future.  And  as  she  knew  this  young  life 
within  her,  Interposing  between  her  and  the  ways  of 
society,  bitterness  sank  Into  deep  despair.  Her  tears 
flowed  freely.  What  could  she  do?  she  asked  of  the 
heedless  winds  and  sere  bushes.  If  she  returned  to 
seek  some  employment  It  would  be  to  face  a  suspicion 
that  would  soon  enough  be  born.  Her  state  would  not 
long  remain  undiscovered.  Incapacity  would  succeed, 
she  said,  knowing  not  that  It  was  rather  her  own  sensi- 
tive mind  that  Interposed  than  any  corporal  barrier. 
The  world,  her  world,  had  turned  her  off.  She  read 
its  judgment  In  hideous  letters;  and  fled  It.  She  knew 
it  wrong,  her  whole  pure,  strong  nature  rose  up  to  ac- 
claim It  wrong;  and  In  anger  she  spurned  It.  It  had 
been  faithless  to  her;  and  she  did  not  trust  It.  The 
one  emotion  she  had  found  In  Life  that  had  made  It 
a  thing  divine :  eternal,  beautiful,  sublime,  a  thing  from 
the  very  hand  of  God — had  wrought  on  her  this  bar- 
rier, had  ostracized  her.     It  became  a  poison. 

But  a  new  terror  beset  her.  Hitherto  her  mind  had 
sufficed  to  harry  her,  emptying  out  Its  own  Internal 
furies.  But  external  furies  now  camped  about  her, 
and  mocked  at  her  with  evil  faces.  Perplexities,  anxi- 
eties, beset  her.  For  November  was  about  her  now; 
and  none  choose  to  wander  in  that  desolate  month  of 
fury.  Reluctantly  she  found  herself  turning  to  the 
towns  more  frequently.  Her  mind  hated  It;  and  her 
judgment  hated  it,  for  it  made  fearful  inroads  on  her 
scanty  purse. 

Moreover,  she  was  ill.     The  intensity  of  her  mind 


■I  1 6  Broken  Arcs 

forbade  her  knowing  this  at  first.  But  she  discovered 
it.  In  that  interval  between  waking  and  the  returning 
of  energy  it  was  made  known  to  her.  It  was  not  pos- 
sible that  rains  and  mists  should  rage  about  her  unpro- 
tectedness  without  their  working  their  evil  on  her  body, 
worn  and  spent  as  it  was  with  the  ferocious  working 
of  her  mind. 

Without  deciding  to  do  so,  she  gave  up  her  wander- 
ing and  took  to  hovering.  She  clung  to  a  certain 
town  in  Berkshire,  fearing  to  move  far  from  it.  Of 
a  day,  if  the  weather  permitted  her,  and  often  if  the 
weather  withheld  permission,  she  took  to  wandering 
about  the  adjacent  hillsides.  At  night  she  would  re- 
turn, and  make  forthwith  to  the  sheets  of  her  bed. 

But  she  began  to  achieve  notoriety  so.  Curiosity 
will  not  leave  misery  to  finish  Itself,  or  at  least  take  its 
own  way.  It  must  needs  pragmatize  on  sorrow.  At 
first,  she  did  not  notice  It.  But  inquisitive  urchins  won- 
dered at  her.  Her  landlady  eyed  her  askance.  La- 
bouring men  commented  on  her.  The  thing  grew 
about  her,  and  forced  itself  on  her  consciousness.  She 
fled.. 

XXX 

She  found  another  town  to  serve  her  end,  for  wan- 
der she  could  not.  Illness  grew  on  her.  It  crept  past 
her  body  to  her  mind,  the  initial  seat  of  her  wretched- 
ness. 

Funds  had  come  perilously  low.  Boots  and  clothes 
had  been  required  of  her.  Let  no  too  curious  eye  fol- 
low her  as  she  wrestled  with  her  diminishing  ex- 
chequer. Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  Berkshire  lanes  and 
downs  knew  other  tears  than  November's  merciless 
rains;  more  scalding  withal. 


Impulsions  117 

But  help  was  at  hand.  Though  she  began  to  brood 
over  sudden  means  to  end  this  growing  and  accumulat- 
.  ing  anxiety,  yet  help  was  at  hand.  Day  after  day  she 
had  haunted  a  certain  pool  that  tempted  her.  She 
had  treasured  the  knowledge  of  it,  and  daily  went 
there  to  familiarize  herself  with  it,  determining  not  to 
yield  to  its  chilly  tempting  till  all  was  indeed  over,  and 
complete  for  an  end.  She  clung  to  life.  Moreover, 
her  very  illness  and  weariness  induced  indecision  in  her. 

Twice  on  returning  from  the  green  pool  that  served 
for  her  daily  companion  she  had  staggered  in  the 
streets  of  Brokenfield,  and  almost  fallen.  On  the  lat- 
ter occasion  some  one  had  come  to  her  aid.  She  dimly 
saw  a  kindly,  somewhat  rubicund,  face  that  asked  par- 
ticulars of  her.  She  was  nearly  at  the  end  of  strength, 
but  she  had  sufficient  consciousness  to  fence  and  evade 
him.  Firmly  he  renewed  his  questionings;  but,  mur- 
muring broken  thanks,  she  left  him.  Fear  was  in  her 
eyes  as  she  did  so. 

She  did  not  note,  however,  that  this  stranger  fol- 
lowed after  her,  not  only  through  the  streets,  but  into 
her  very  hotel.  It  was  a  forsaken  hotel  she  had  sought, 
none  too  clean  withal;  but  it  had  served  the  double 
utility  of  cheapness  and  seclusion. 

"Who  is  this  girl  just  gone  upstairs?'*  he  asked  of 
the  ungainly  proprietor  when  he  discovered  him. 

"She?  Now  you're  asking.  Pretty  lass,  isn't 
she?"  The  worthy  proprietor  knew  his  interlocutor 
for  a  comfortably  retired  salesman  of  some  sort  from 
a  near  city,  and  therefore  was  not  disposed  to  waste 
respect  on  an  equal,  the  more  so  since  he  was  little 
likely  to  find  him  any  patronage. 

"You're  right,  she  is.     But  what  is  she  doing  here?" 

"Living.  The  kind  of  rum  thing  most  of  us  do; 
though  why  we  do  it  God  only  knows." 


;ji8  Broken  Arcs 

''But  don't  you  know  anything  more  of  her?" 

"Now,  look  here,  Mr.  Bradley,  what  do  I  usually 
know  of  the  people  that  stay  at  my  hotel?  Nothing! 
And  more'n  that,  I  don't  want  to  know.  She  pays, 
that's  all  I  know,  or  want  to  know." 

"But  she's  ill." 

"I  know.  But  that's  her  business.  I  expect  she's 
like  the  rest  of  us — got  to  work,  111  or  no  ill." 

"Does  she  work?  She  doesn't  look  the  working 
sort." 

"I  suppose  so.  She  goes  out  early,  and  comes  back 
late,  anyhow;  and  that  looks  like  it.  I  don't  know 
where  she  works,  though." 

Mr.  Bradley  regarded  the  other  a  moment,  and  de- 
termined a  different  line  of  tactics. 

"Have  a  whisky-and-soda  with  me?" 

The  other  enthused  with  a  quite  remarkable  speed. 

"Don't  mind  if  I  do,"  said  he. 

The  bitter  weather,  the  floating  mists,  and  the  pe- 
rennial adjunct  of  weather  vagary  served  their  turn. 
Then  Mr.  Bradley,  having  aroused  a  more  congenial 
mood  in  the  worthy  innkeeper,  brought  back  the  con- 
versational ship  Into  Its  earlier  current. 

"About  that  girl,  I  think  she  seems  to  need  atten- 
tion, you  know.  She  nearly  fell  In  the  Cowley  Road 
when  I  saw  her  first.  More  than  that,  she  looked 
hunted  and  wild  when  I  spoke  to  her.  I  didn't 
like  it." 

"Maybe  you're  right.  What  can  you  do,  though? 
The  wife's  tried  to  speak  to  her,  but  she  won't  have  It. 
■We  don't  charge  her  much,  you  know.  Give  her  hot 
cocoa  in  bed,  and  that  kind  of  thing.  She's  bad,  I 
know;  and  if  you  ask  me,  who  isn't  a  curious  man,  it's 
more'n  illness.  Her  room's  above  ours  at  the  back, 
and  sometimes  at  night  we  hear  her  walking  to  and 


Impulsions  119 

fro,  to  and  fro.  It's  disturbing;  but  bless  you!  v/e 
don't  say  anything." 

"Does  she  though?  Does  she  though?  Dear, 
dear  me!"  Mr.  Bradley's  shining,  kindly  face, 
puckered  with  commiseration  and  anxiety. 

*'You  don't  know  where  she  goes  of  a  day?" 

"No."     The  negative  was  crisp. 

"What  time  does  she  go  out?  You  see,  I'm  wor- 
ried about  her;  her  look  at  me  was  like  a  rabbit's, 
•driven  crazy.  There's  enough  trouble  in  the  world 
without  any  going  on  we  can  stop.  You  know,  of 
course,  what  time  she  goes  out." 

"She  used  to  go  out  early;  Rve^  six,  earlier  some- 
times. Now  It's  generally  eight  or  nine.  She's  always 
back  much  about  the  same  time." 


XXXI 

That  night  Mr.  Bradley  had  a  deep  conversation 
with  his  wife  on  the  subject,  and  found  misunderstand- 
ing abrupt  across  his  goodwill.  That  Is  the  perpetual 
difficulty  of  the  earth.  Who  has  not  seen  visions,  and 
found  their  mention  meet  dull  misunderstanding? 
Derision  Is  thrice-welcome  as  compared  with  such  mis- 
understanding. For  derision  arouses  combat;  misun- 
derstanding is  a  sudden  blanket  over  a  fire.  Derision 
is  the  trumpet-note  of  challenge;  misunderstanding  is 
the  cold  shoulder  of  neglect. 

"But  what  do  you  propose  to  do?"  queried  his 
wife. 

"Follow  her  to-morrow,  and  find  out  where  she 
works." 

"My  dear  James!" 

She  had  not  seen  the  vision  he  had.     She  had  not 


[120  Broken  Arcs 

known  a  wild,  piteous  eye  and  shrinking  manner  stretch 
out  like  a  hand  to  strike  chords  of  pity  over  the  souPs 
secret  strings.  She  merely  heard  a  customary  tale  of 
some  misfortune;  imagined  or  real,  deserved  or  unde- 
served, but  quite  beyond  the  pale  of  her  personal  inter- 
ference. Her  bland  expostulation  arose  like  a  wall 
across  his  quickened  interest.  But  he  braced  himself 
with  more  than  customary  stoutness  of  undaunted 
zeal. 

"Jane,  I  must  do  it;  it's  like  a  duty  on  me.**  • 

"You  do  what  you  think,  of  course.*'  Her  tone 
placed  a  large  "But**  after  her  sentence,  leaving  a 
frayed  end  to  imply  the  extraordinary  perplexity  of  the 
whole  proceeding. 

Nevertheless  he  held  to  his  intention,  sallying  out 
in  a  merciless  morning  with  something  less  of  convic- 
tion but  with  something  more  of  obstinacy  than  the  pre- 
vious evening  had  known  in  him. 

It  was  not  till  late  in  the  afternoon  he  returned.  It 
was  snowing  without.  The  bitter  rain  of  the  previous 
day  had  risen  to  the  first  Arctic  gale  of  the  winter. 
As  he  flung  open  the  door  his  voice  sang  out  for  her, 
and  when  she  appeared  she  saw  he  had  a  drooping 
figure  in  his  charge. 

"What  a  dreadful  day!**  she  exclaimed. 

"Thank  God  for  it!'*  he  burst  out  with  mock  jollity, 
for  she  caught  in  his  voice  the  touch  of  emotion  that 
trembled  on  tears,  and  he  disavowed  it  in  this  robust 
fashion.  "See !  here's  a  charge  for  you,  that  the  snow 
won  me.  Jane,  my  dear,  look  after  her,  poor  girl! 
and  we'll  talk  afterwards." 

Rose  was  enveloped  by  his  large  overcoat,  and  he 
was  without.     His  arm  was  about  her,  supporting  her. 

Childless  Mrs.  Bradley  grew  mother  at  the  sight  of 
'Rose,  on  whom  illness  had  marked  its  not  uncertain 


Impulsions  12 1 

hand.  Had  it  not  been  for  Mr.  Bradley's  arm  she 
must  certainly  have  fallen.  Her  face  was  blue  with 
cold,  and  her  teeth  chattered.  Moreover,  her  eyes, 
were  half  closed,  and  it  seemed  her  mind  wandered. 

Calling  to  her  servant — a  woman  as  like  to  herself 
as  could  well  be,  and  a  household  adjunct;  one  who 
proffered  shrewd  advice  in  the  safe  certainty  of  its 
adoption — Mrs.  Bradley  took  her  new  charge  under 
her  wing.  Mr.  Bradley  betook  himself  to  the  fire  his 
wife  had  just  left,  ostensibly  to  warm  himself,  but 
more  really  to  unloose  an  emotion  that  he  desired  none 
to  notice. 

"Perishing  day;  ah,  bitter  weather!"  he  muttered 
to  himself,  as  suspicious  salt  drops  beaded  his  cheeks. 
"Quite  makes  my  eyes  water,  drat  it!  Poor  girl! 
Just  in  time,  too.  I  wonder  when  Jane's  coming. 
She'll  be  glad  I  brought  her  when  she  knows.  Drat 
this  cold!"  He  flourished  a  handkerchief  to  demol- 
ish the  visible  tokens  of  his  emotion. 

Presently  Mrs.  Bradley  appeared.  She  took  in  the 
situation  as  touching  him  at  a  glance,  and  spoke  imme- 
diately of  Rose. 

"We've  put  her  in  the  spare  room.  We've  got  a 
grand  fire  in  it,  and  Alice  is  making  her  some  broth. 
I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to  call  a  doctor." 

"Do  so,  Jane;  do  so,  dear!" 

"Where  did  you  find  her?  How  did  you  come  to 
get  her  away  in  the  middle  of  the  day?" 

"Oh,  my  dear,  such  a  tale."  Vigorously  he  blew 
his  nose. 

Mrs.  Bradley  settled  herself  to  hear. 

"She  didn't  come  out  of  Simpson's  till  very  late, 
you  see,  and  by  that  time  the  weather  was  getting  bad 
— you  know,  wind  cold;  it  wasn't  snowing.  But  she 
didn't  go  anywhere  in  the  town  at  all — nowhere ;  went 


[122  Broken  Arcs 

right  out  of  it,  up  towards  the  Sugarloaf.  I  followed 
her,  of  course.  Directly  she  got  out  of  the  town,  she 
.  started  crying,  yes,  my  dear,  did  really."  The  hand- 
kerchief was  called  In  for  new  brandlshlngs,  and  Mrs. 
Bradley  turned  to  poke  the  fire.  ^'Crying  and  groan- 
ing to  herself.  Made  me  feel  quite  bad.  Well,  she 
went  on;  and  of  course  I  went  on.  Presently  she  came 
to  the  Deep  Hole.  YouVe  never  been  up  there,  have 
you?" 

**No!" 

"Horrible  place !  Never  knew  how  horrible  it  was 
till  to-day.  Green  and  deep ;  no  one  knows  how  deep. 
It's  said  some  big  man  In  history — I  don't  know  who 
— drowned  himself  there.  Everybody  keeps  away 
from  it." 

*Tes;  well?" 

"When  she  got  to  the  Hole  she  took  out  a  bag  of 
something  and  started  eating.  I  couldn't  see  what  It 
was;  and  she  didn't  see  me,  you  know.  She  wouldn't 
have  seen  me  If  I  had  been  right  close,  for  she  was 
evidently  thinking,  and  worried.  She  didn't  get  on 
very  quickly  with  the  eating;  and  presently  she  got  up 
and  threw  the  whole  bag  Into  the  water,  and  started 
crying  again.     It  was  terrible." 

Mrs.  Bradley  looked  up  at  him.  To  her  there 
seemed  nothing  so  very  terrible  in  throwing  a  parcel 
Into  a  pool  of  water.  The  thought  communicated  it- 
self to  him. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "It  was  terrible.  You  know,  funny 
instincts  come  on  one  unaccountably,  and  I  felt  just 
sure  then  that  she  meant  destroying  herself." 

"No!" 

"Yes."  His  reply  was  emphatic.  "I'm  sure  of  it. 
She  walked  up  and  down  there,  wringing  her  hands  in 
a  terrible  way;  and  it  began  to  snow.     She  looked  the 


Impulsions  123 

way  the  snow  was  coming  for  a  bit,  then  went  on  walk- 
ing up  and  down.  I  stood  there  by  a  tree,  and  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  I  felt  I  couldn't  go  breaking  in  on 
her,  it  was  too  sacred.  I  was  below,  you  see,  and  she 
was  up  on  the  crest  against  the  snow.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  look  of  it  till  I  die.  There  she  was,  walk- 
ing up  and  down  against  the  driving  snow,  not  crying, 
but  moaning  to  herself.  She's  got  some  big  trouble, 
my  dear;  we'll  find  that  out  later.  I  saw  that  then. 
"Still,  that  kind  of  thing  couldn't  go  on.  So  I  made 
my  way  quietly  up  to  her;  and  when  I  got  fairly  near, 
I  called  to  her,  lightly  and  very  kindly.  She  turned 
and  when  she  saw  me,  she  just  shrank  away.  It  made 
me  feel  very  strange.  It  was  very  pitiful,  Jane.  I 
spoke  to  her  a  long,  long  time.  I  told  her  she  had 
got  nothing  to  be  afraid  of;  that  I  meant  her  well. 
Then  she  got  angry,  and  said  she  didn't  believe  in  any- 
body. She  said  the  whole  world  was  harsh  and  un- 
kind, that  even  the  earth  was  unkind;  why  did  it  want 
to  send  winter  then,  just  when  she  could  least  bear  it? 
She  got  very  angry  against  the  winter;  in  fact,  she  be- 
gan to  wander,  and  that  just  gave  me  my  opportunity. 
She  went  on  saying  there  was  no  kindness  or  trust  or 
companionship  anywhere,  not  even  in  the  fields  and 
hills;  that  her  only  friend  was  that  Hole  (she  called 
it  her  Pool),  and  she  meant  never  to  leave  it.  So  I 
just  quietly  got  out  of  my  coat,  and  going  up  to  her  I 
put  it  over  her  shoulders.  That  finished  her.  'Thank 
you,  sir!'  she  said,  In  such  a  dignified  way,  and  so  tear- 
fully. I  loved  the  girl  for  that.  Well,  that  finished 
it.  She  came  with  me  then.  You  see,  her  heart  was 
just  hungry  for  a  bit  of  kindness,  that's  how  it  was. 
I  just  put  my  arm  about  the  thing,  and  brought  her 
down.  All  the  way  down  she  just  clung  to  me,  affec- 
tionately, Jane;  yes,  and  pitifully  so.     It  was  almost 


[124  Broken  Arcs 

extravagant  the  way  she  did  so.  It  made  me — yes, 
well,  I  may  as  well  confess  it,  made  me  feel  quite — •. 
tearful,  you  know." 

'Tm  very  glad  you  brought  her,  dear."  Mrs. 
Bradley's  voice  was  softly  toned.  ^Tll  just  go  and 
see  how  the  poor  girl  is  getting  on." 

So  she  conveniently  left  him  to  lusty  nose-blowings. 


XXXII 

Rose  was  ill;  very  ill.  She  had  been  ill  for  some 
time,  more  ill  than  she  knew ;  but  now  she  relinquished 
herself  to  it,  and  it  came  on  her  in  a  mighty  tide.  She 
had  stood  against  it  hitherto,  in  very  desperation, 
knowing  that  to  give  way  would  be  the  end  of  all 
things.  The  great  tides  had  gathered  without  her 
bulwarks,  but  she  had  withheld.  By  force  of  will  she 
had  clung  to  health  of  mind  and  body.  She  had  up- 
held her  bulwarks.  But  now,  in  sheer  weariness  and 
loneliness  of  mind,  that  she  sank  into  a  rest  provided 
for  her,  and  forsook  her  bulwarks,  the  waters  surged 
in  and  overwhelmed. 

The  doctor  pronounced  her  case  as  meningitis.  Yet 
even  in  her  illness  of  mind  her  will  struggled  through 
to  resist  too  great  a  revelation  of  herself  in  her  wan- 
derings. So  far  she  succeeded,  that  she  was  strong 
enough  yet  to  shroud  the  lesser  details.  The  one  out- 
standing matter  of  her  state  became  soon  told  out  and 
apparent. 

The  antique  Alice,  as  true  a  portion  of  the  domestic 
economy  as  an  ancient  time-piece,  had  added  to  her 
innumerable  tasks  that  of  nurse-in-chief  to  Rose.  It 
became  her  duty,  and  she  fulfilled  it  with  stoutness. 
It  no  less  pleased  her  goodly  sense  of  officiousness. 


Impulsions  125 

Whatever  passed  in  the  Bradley's  household  had  by 
necessity  to  centre  in  her.  She  was  its  subconscious 
cerebration;  and  inasmuch  as  it  left  Mrs.  Bradley  to 
the  more  wilful  functions  her  mistress  was  not  ill- 
pleased. 

It  was  she  discovered  the  fact  first,  and  communi- 
cated it  in  awesome  whisper  to  Mrs.  Bradley.  Had 
she  conveyed  the  news  with  a  trumpet-tongue  there  had 
been  few  to  hear;  but  such  matters  best  befit  the  hus- 
kier tones.  The  discreet  information  found  Mrs.  Brad- 
ley incredulous.  Alice  fell  back  on  her  infallibility. 
This  was  a  thing  that  Mrs.  Bradley  had  never  yet 
dared  to  call  into  question.  She  left  Alice  therefore 
to  ruminate;  and  found  familiarity  with  the  uncom- 
fortable thing  accustom  her  mind  to  it,  and,  moreover, 
give  an  explanation  for  the  main  mystery  of  Rose's 
loneliness  and  wanderings. 

To  her  husband,  therefore,  that  night  she  broached 
the  fell  news;  and  found  him  strangely  unperturbed. 
Indeed,  it  almost  seemed  that  he  was  prepared  for 
such  news. 

"Did  you  know  of  this?"  Mrs.  Bradley  asked  this 
of  her  husband,  knowing  he  did  not,  and  yet  perplexed 
at  his  calmness. 

"No,  Jane,  no  I  But  she's  a  good  girl,  I  think.  Of 
course,  I  knew  there  was  some  trouble.  So  it's  this, 
is  it?" 

"But  it's  terrible. 

"Yes,  so  it  is.    Poor  girl.  No  wonder  she  was " 

"I  mean  for  us." 

Mr.  Bradley  drew  up  startled,  to  face  a  new  per- 
plexity altogether. 

"It  puts  us  in  a  most  difficult  position,"  his  wife 
stated  to  him. 

"H'm!  I  suppose  it  does.     But  still " 


126  Broken  Arcs 

''But  still  what?" 

*'We  can't  flinch  from  it,  can  we?" 

**But  see  what  an  awkward  light  it  puts  us  Into  1" 

**Still  we  must  go  on  with  it  now,  mustn't  we?"  He 
seemed  to  find  this  a  rock  for  his  feet  rather  than  a 
perplexity  before  him.  'That  is  so,  isn't  it,  Jane?" 
he  said  again  to  his  pondering  wife. 

"We  can  send  her  to  the  hospital." 

"Jane!" 

The  horror  in  his  voice  made  her  ashamed  of  her 
proposition. 

"But,  James,  you  don't  recognize  things.'* 

"Things!     What  thin^sr 

"Difficulties." 

"Difficulties?" 

"Yes,  difficulties."  She  avoided  the  explicitness  he 
pressed  her  to,  awkwardly  and  with  hesitation. 

"There  are  no  difficulties.  She's  here,  and  we  just 
go  on  with  it.     We  can  afford  it,  I  am  glad  to  say." 

"But  there  are  social  difficulties." 

"Oh!"  He  gathered  himself  together  for  an  effort. 
"Excuse  my  language,  dear,  I  must  say  it — damn  So- 
ciety; yes,  damn  Society!"  He  seemed  to  find  great 
unction  In  the  expletive,  and  rubbed  his  hands  on  it. 
"Since  they  found  out  I  was  a  saddler  once,  they  didn't 
want  me.  Good!  It  helps  me  now;  I'm  glad  of  it. 
Though  If  I'd  had  just  a  bit  more  money  they  would 
have  been  all  over  me,  even  if  I'd  been  a  sweep.  Let 
me  see,  they  bar  her  too.  Good,  good!  We'll  help 
each  other."  He  walked  up  and  down  In  front  of  his 
hearth  In  joy  of  the  discovery. 

"But  there  are  other  difficulties  too."  Mrs.  Bradley 
fought  perplexedly  with  the  situation,  and  its  enor- 
mity. 

"Other  difficulties?" 


Impulsions  127 

"Yes,  moral  difficulties." 

*'0h,  Jane!"  A  note  of  hopelessness  rang  in  his 
voice.  "That  you  should  talk  like  that  I  Look,  my 
love.  Vm  an  old  man,  I  can  talk  to  you  as  a  young 
man  can't  talk  to  his  wife — ^you  know,  she'd  think  he 
was  special-pleading.     Didn't  she  do  a  natural  thing?" 

"A  natural "  The  decrescendo  died  in  a  silence 

of  contemplation. 

"Yes,  didn't  she  now?  I  don't  know  her  history — 
I  dare  swear  she's  a  good,  kind  lass — I  don't  want  to 
know  it,  we'll  get  that  later.  But,  say  she  did  wrong  I 
Still  isn't  there  nature  in  it?" 

Silence  stretched  before  him.  He  faced  it  awhile, 
then  continued — 

"Did  she  embezzle?'* 

Still  there  was  silence. 

"Did  she  cheat?  Did  she  lie?  Did  she  promote 
bad  companies?  Did  she  beat  down  poor  men?  Did 
she  overwork  assistants?  Good  God!  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it."  He  footed  to  and  fro  on  the  rug, 
working  himself  into  high  excitement,  finding  measures 
for  his  words  by  vigorously  rubbing  his  hands. 

"You  know  she  didn't.  My  betting's  on  her  face  and 
her  manner  to  me  that  she's  too  pure  and  lovely  for 
any  of  these  things.  No,  she  did  what  we've  been 
doing  all  these  years." 

"James!"  Mrs.  Bradley's  face  looked  up  with  an 
expression  of  utmost  horror,  and  abashed  him. 

"Didn't  she?"     His  query  was  put  more  gently. 

"There's  a  tremendous  difference." 

"My  love,  you're  married,  you're  standing  up  for 
wifedom — very  right  and  proper,  too!" 

"But  it's  much  more  than  that !" 

He  stood  facing  her,  looking  on  her.  Her  meaning 
broke  on  him. 


128  Broken  Arcs 

"H*m,  I  see  what  you  mean.  But  supposing  she 
was  willing  to  stand  to  It.  Suppose  the  other  party — 
eh,  threw  her  off,  betrayed  her!"  A  sudden  Illumina- 
tion seemed  to  flash  through  his  mind.  "Why,  of 
course,  that^s  it!  That's  why  she's  so  bitter;  that's 
whom  she's  crying  out  against."  Another  ray  went 
through  his  mind,  and  he  went  ramping  up  and  down 
the  hearth-rug  again.  **It  always  Is,  It  always  Is.  I'm 
not  going  to  let  that  poor  child  suffer;  and  I'll  tell  you 
why.  It's  always  the  poor  girls  that  suffer,  and  nine 
times  out  of  ten  It's  the  girls  who  are  willing  to  stand 
to  the  fact,  and  the  men  who  turn  tail.  Oh,  I  know; 
I'm  not  a  man  for  nothing;  I've  been  about.  Jane» 
If  all  the  men  who  make  mischief,  and  then  turn  tail, 
were  whipped  to-day — ^by  Heaven,  more  than  half  the 
men  in  England  would  be  jumping  about  with  sore 
backs.     Yes,  you  laugh,  but  that's  It,  never  doubt  me  I" 

His  wife  smiled  sadly  Into  the  fire.  He  himself 
stood  over  her  hoping  he  had  won  his  point.  But  he 
felt  the  Issue  hung  In  a  doubt.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  do.  He  gave  himself  up  to  rapid  thinking,  with 
no  avail.  Moreover,  he  felt  she  was  slipping  back 
again  into  the  refuge  of  meaningless  grooves  of 
thought.  Suddenly  a  thought  broke  on  him,  and  al- 
most before  he  thought  It  he  spoke  it. 

*'Jane,  let's  have  prayers!" 

*Trayers?"  Family  prayers  had  dropped  out  of 
usage  for  some  long  while,  tacitly  and  by  consent,  and 
she  marvelled.  ^  ' 

"Yes,  family  prayers  1  Don't  let's  talk  about  It. 
Just  let's  do  it.     It's  an  Idea  of  mine." 

"Very  well.  But  I'd  better  go  and  explain  to  Alice. 
She  won't  understand  it." 

So  out  she  went.  No  sooner  had  she  gone  than  he 
took  down  a  Bible,  and  with  considerable    difficulty 


Impulsions  129 

found  a  certain  passage.  Having  found  it,  he  turned 
the  leaf  down,  and  returned  the  book  to  its  place. 

When  Mrs.  Bradley  came  in  with  Alice  he  took  the 
book  down  again,  and,  turning  over  its  leaves,  found, 
as  though  by  chance,  the  passage  he  had  marked.  At 
its  conclusion,  he  re-read  the  latest  portions  of  it. 

Prayers  over,  Alice  went  out. 

"Well,  Jane  ?'»  he  asked. 

He  found  no  reply. 

*That  was  what  you  call  good  doctrine,  eh?" 

"Still "  Mrs.  Bradley  started  her  protest,  but! 

proceeded  no  further  with  it. 

"Well,  you  can't  get  better  authority,  you  know. 
That  is  morality,  the  top  of  morality.  'And  He  asked 
her,  Doth  no  man  accuse  thee?*  Of  course  she  said, 
*No  man.  Lord,'  for  He'd  sent  them  to  the  clear  right- 
about; they'd  all  done  it  in  their  time,  every  man  jack 
of  them.  And  then  think,  'Neither  do  I  condemn 
thee!'  I  think  the  morality  part's  pretty  safe,  Jane. 
I'm  not  going  to  condemn  where  He  wouldn't.  The 
best  morality  is  kindness,  you  know,  after  all." 

Mrs.  Bradley  said  nothing.     He  went  over  to  her. 

"Fancy,  my  dear,  you  wouldn't  ruin  her  for  an  acci- 
dent?" 

"Accident!"  Indignation  mounted  insurgent  in  her 
voice. 

"Yes,  accident.  You  know,  love,  you'd  not  worry 
if  she  hadn't  had  a  child.  That's  what  worries  you. 
Don't  tak  of  moralities  if  you  paean  perplexities.  And 
if  you  do  mean  perplexities,  why  then  it's  owning  to 
selfishness.  Good  Heavens!  as  if  other  people  had 
done  so  much  for  us  that  we  need  mind  their  opinion  I" 


130'  Broken  Arcs 


XXXIII 


It  was  a  half-won  battle;  but  the  first  half  was  so 
won  that  the  latter  half  followed  consequent  upon  it. 
Her  native  kindliness  was  what  remained  to  be  won 
in  the  teeth  of  her  prudery  and  selfishness.  And  when 
Alice  informed  her  that  Rose  had  regained  conscious- 
ness, it  was  she  who  then  took  charge  of  the  sick-room, 
letting  Rose  know  by  deft  allusions  that  they  proposed 
to  shelter  her  and  make  a  home  for  her,  knowing  well 
what  it  meant  for  them  and  for  Rose. 

It  perplexed  Rose.  She  lay  seeking  to  grapple  with 
it,  but  relinquished  the  effort  for  very  weariness.  As 
she  grew  stronger,  however,  she  fought  with  it.  The 
bitterness  that  her  illness  had  laid  low  raised  its  head. 
She  knew  not  what  to  do;  but  it  came  continually  be- 
fore her  that  as  soon  as  she  could  she  would  flee  these 
people. 

Once  when  Mrs.  Bradley  was  in  the  room  tending 
her  she  raised  the  subject. 

"My  dear,'*  said  Mrs.  Bradley,  laying  her  hand  on 
Rose's  forehead,  ''my  husband  and  I  were  talking  of 
you  this  morning.  He  wishes  you,  if  you  will,  to  re- 
main right  on  with  us;  and  I'm  very  glad  he  does,  for  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  lose  you.  We've  never  had 
a  child.     Your  name's  Rose,  isn't  it?" 

*'Yes,"  said  Rose  feebly,  scarcely  realizing  what  she 
heard. 

**I  like  the  name  Rose." 

"But  do  you  know ?"  Rose  raised  her  brow  in 

query,  as  the  meaning  of  the  thing  shaped  itself  before 
her. 

"Yes,  Rose,  we  know  most  things.  Not  all,  of 
course.     That  you  must  tell  us  when  you  get  well." 


Impulsions  13 1 

But  Rose  would  not  linger  further  with  it.  Brokenly, 
and  in  fragments,  Mrs.  Bradley  learnt  all  that  there 
was  to  learn — all  save  the  matter  of  the  wanderings, 
about  which  she  was  very  uncertain,  knowing  but  dimly 
that  she  had  sought  to  escape  an  enormity  that  was 
relentless  in  its  pursuit,  the  only  peace  being  that  af- 
forded by  the  deep  green-mantled  pool  of  her  fre- 
quentings. 

When  Mr.  Bradley  heard  the  tale,  the  melting  mood 
alternated  in  him  with  indignation,  until  the  latter 
overshot  all  proper  bounds  of  utterance. 

"Her  father  put  her  out,  did  he?"  he  vociferated. 
"Good  Heavens!  and  calls  himself  a  preacher!  Jane, 
I'm  sorry  I  read  that  passage !  No,  I'm  not,  though. 
I  don't  see  why  we  let  these  tub-thumpers  monopolize 
the  old  book.  And  this  other  rascal  too!  Needs  a 
horse-whipping !" 

"She  has  had  an  unfortunate  experience,"  said  she 
quietly. 

Thus  these  souls  took  Rose  into  their  keeping,  and 
after  her  convalescence  took  her  away  that  her  later 
illness  should  take  place  far  from  Brokenfield;  to 
which  place  they  returned  eventually,  a  company  of 
four. 


BOOK   II 

ACTIONS 


"It's  simply  astonishing  that  the  people  permit  it. 
My  tongue  is  of  course  unfortunately  tied  by  the  fact 
that  my  practice  largely  extends  among  these  land- 
owners. But  still,  right  is  right,  and  I've  been  a  Lib- 
eral all  my  life.  I  was  one  when  I  was  a  young  man 
your  age,  and  Tm  so  still,  which  is  a  fairly  consistent 
record.  In  some  of  my  opinions  I  don't  agree  with 
the  Liberal  party  as  at  present  constituted,  but  then 
it's  they  who  have  changed  and  not  I.  I  don't  change. 
I  believe  in  making  up  your  mind  and  sticking  to  it. 
But  still,  I'm  wandering.  I  think  this  speech  of  Lang- 
land's  an  admirable  one,  and  I  hope  it'll  rouse  the 
masses  as  it  ought  to.  If  they  only  saw  their  power, 
they'd  carry  all  before  them.  But,  then,  they're  cra- 
dled in  phrases  and  promises  till  they  don't  know  right 
from  wrong.  Crafty  devils,  these  Tories.  Still,  some 
of  the  things  Langland  said  ought  to  open  their  eyes. 
Listen  to  this !" 

Dr.  Denzil  stood  before  his  hearth  as  he  gave  this 
out.  Attired  in  professional  grey  frock  suit  he  looked 
the  perfect  embodiment  of  sleekness  and  elegance. 
He  was  of  medium  height,  inclined  to  fleshiness.  His 
sartorial  equipment  was  faultless,  and — a  rarer 
achievement — conceived  in  taste.  Such  jewellery  as  he 
had  on  (a  tie-pin,  a  ring  and  a  watch-chain)  seemed  as 
though  it  peeped  coyly  forth  upon  the  world,  eschew- 
ing of  all  things  the  brandishing  of  mere  glitter.  He 
was  grey-eyed,  and  his  lofty  forehead  sloped  away  be- 
neath grey  hairs. 

His  audience  consisted  of  a  single  young  man,  evi- 

135 


T^S  Broken  Arcs 

dently  his  son.  It  seemed  to  perturb  him  little  that 
this  young  man  only  heeded  him  so  far  as  to  be  able  to 
interpose  the  correct  monosyllabic  encouragement,  the 
body  of  his  attention  being  given  to  a  volume  of  Wal- 
ter Pater  that  lay  on  the  arm  of  the  capacious  chair 
he  occupied. 

When  Dr.  Denzil  had  finished  the  encouraging  quo- 
tation, he  looked  forth  again,  using  the  paper  to  brand- 
ish aloft  in  the  course  of  his  periods — 

"There's  the  thing  in  a  nutshell.  That's  what  I  call 
a  rousing  idea.  It  puts  mettle  into  all  of  us.  Mark 
you,  Langland's  not  a  great  man.  He's  not  magnetic, 
he's  merely  electric.  Still,  he  says  good  things,  and 
he  says  them  well.  His  humour  is  sometimes  quite 
biting.  I  don't  wonder  the  Tories  hate  him.  His 
purpose  is  quite  obvious,  he  wants  to  rouse  the  pas- 
sions of  the  mob.  Quite  right,  too ;  why  shouldn't  he  ? 
Haven't  they  got  as  much  right  to  their  passions  as 
their  masters?  It's  the  only  way  you'll  ever  get  them 
to  see  that  they're  being  humbugged.  If  I  were  in 
their  place,  I  would  not  put  up  with  their  state  of 
affairs  for  a  single  minute.  Still,  Langland's  not  a 
genius;  he  has  got  a  bit  of  courage,  that's  all.  It's 
quite  amazing  what  little  men  we've  got  in  our  public 
life — little  in  every  way,  little  most  of  all  in  the  sense 
that  they  have  no  personality.  Take  Langland,  for 
example!  Quite  the  most  vital  of  them  all,  and  yet 
what  is  he?  It  makes  one  lose  hope.  I'd  like  to  have 
taken  to  politics  myself,  and  yet  you've  got  to  have 
money  to  play  that  game.  But  what  do  you  think  of 
this  speech,  Harry?" 

Harry  Denzil  withdrew  a  sidelong  eye  from  Pater, 
and  chanced  the  reply  that  he  had  been  meditating 
some  while  ago,  thinking  that  by  it  he  might  have  pur- 
chased the  peace  he  sought. 


Actions  137 

*'I  don't  see  much  value  In  It.  I  agree  with  his 
sentiments,  of  course,  perhaps  a  bit  better  than  he 
does.  They've  been  talking  now — how  long?  A  good 
time,  anyway.  And  what  has  It  succeeded  In  doing? 
Changing  one  oligarchy  about  for  another.  I  don't 
see  much  good  In  talk,  anyhow;  I'd  like  to  see  some- 
thing done.  If  there  was  a  revolution  to-morrow,  I 
wouldn't  care  to  bet  on  Langland  helping  the  people. 
But  as  long  as  he  gets  a  cool  salary  he'll  make  speeches 
to  the  crack  of  doom." 

Dr.  DenzU  rolled  uncanny  eyes  at  his  son,  and  bit  on 
his  lip  to  bridle  his  annoyance.  He  looked  particu- 
larly venomous  when  annoyed.  His  eye  took  a  yellow 
hue,  and  shot  malignant  lights.  Harry  was  not  look- 
ing at  his  father,  however,  and  therefore  did  not  no- 
tice the  transformation  In  him. 

"You've  got  a  most  annoying  way  of  speaking, 
Harry,  which  I  don't  like  at  all,  and  which  I'll  trouble 
you  to  drop.  It's  nothing  more  or  less  than  simple 
arrogance.  You've  got  a  most  extraordinarily  Inflated 
notion  of  yourself,  and  you'll  do  yourself  no  good  In 
the  world  by  It.     It's  In  your  best  Interests  I  speak." 

Harry  said  nothing,  but  turned  to  Walter  Pater 
again.  His  father  glowered  down  at  him  awhile,  then 
went  on  reading  his  paper. 

The  tension  was  released  by  a  sudden  opening  of 
the  door,  and  a  voice  that  started  exclaiming  even  be- 
fore the  door  was  opened — 

"I  say,  father,  Is  this  the  prescription  for  Mrs. 
Bradley?" 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  Dr.  Denzll,  rolling  a  somewhat 
less  vexed  an  eye  over  It  rapidly.  "Fancy  my  not 
naming  It.  But  you  must  hurry  up  with  It,  Cicely,  it's 
got  to  go  to-day." 

"Why,  Is  Mrs.  Bradley  bad?" 


138  Broken  Arcs 

**Touch  and  go — I  don't  tell  them  so,  of  course." 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  suppose  any  one'll  miss  her." 

Cicely  Denzil  tripped  across  the  room  as  she  said 
this.  She  was  but  nineteen — some  five  years  younger 
than  her  brother — and  she  fulfilled  the  function  of  dis- 
penser to  her  father,  having,  in  fact,  not  been  very 
long  at  this  duty.  Her  mother  was  dead,  and  she 
chose  this  rather  than  the  duty  of  housekeeper.  In 
truth.  Dr.  Denzil  had  resisted  her  for  reasons  of  his 
own.  But  she  had  chosen  it  for  the  shrewd  reason  that 
it  gave  her  the  lesser  work  of  the  two,  with  the  addi- 
tional charm  of  providing  her  with  an  emolument  over 
and  above  her  allowance.  This  she  had  insisted  on, 
and  Dr.  Denzil  had  not  yet  discovered  any  method  of 
refusing  whatever  whims  seized  on  her. 

Presently  she  burst  in  again. 

"That  prescription  can't  go  to  Mrs.  Bradley  to- 
day!" 

"Can't  go  I"  Dr.  Denzil  dropped  his  paper  in  as- 
tonishment.    "Why  can't  it  go?     It  must  go." 

"Well,  it  can't,  father.  To-day  is  Tim's  holiday, 
and  there's  nobody  to  take  it." 

Tim  was  "buttons,"  "boots,"  messenger  and  general 
seat  of  all  mischief  in  Dr.  Denzil's  household. 

"Oh,  dash  that  boy!  Why  a  boy  like  that  wants 
holidays,  I  can't  think.  Wherever  one  turns  one's 
bound  hand  and  foot  by  servants.  I  don't  know  what 
England's  coming  to.  The  working-classes  are  getting 
out  of  all  hand." — Harry  looked  up,  and  regarded  his 
father  curiously. — "Instead  of  being  only  too  glad  at 
getting  a  good  situation,  where  he  has  got  a  good  home 
and  good  food,  he  must  have  days  off;  and  it  always 
falls  on  an  awkward  day." 

He  regarded  his  daughter. 

"I'm  not  going.     Not  on  a  miserable  day  like  this." 


Actions  139 

,  Vexation  crossed  his  face.  Professional  punctilious- 
ness demanded  there  should  be  no  delay. 

"I'll  go,"  proffered  Harry,  rising,  and  putting  Pater 
beneath  his  arm. 

*WI11  you?  There's  a  dear  old  boy!"  His  sister 
spoke. 

''Have  you  got  it  ready?" 

*'It's  not  it,  it's  them;  there  are  two  bottles." 

"Well,  have  you  got  them  ready,  then?" 

"No.  But  I  won't  be  a  minute.  You  go  and  get 
your  *blke'  ready;  I'll  have  them  ready  by  the  time 
you've  done." 

"I  shan't  'bike,'  I'll  walk;  I  want  a  walk.  Look 
sharp.  Cicely!" 

"Oh,  I  won't  be  a  minute,"  and  she  fled. 

As  Harry  was  going  out  of  the  room  his  father  ad- 
dressed him — 

"And,  Harry,  tell  Mr.  Bradley,  will  you,  that  I 
shall  be  round  the  last  thing  to-night  ?  Tell  him  from 
me  that  there's  no  cause  for  anxiety.  He's  a  bit  apt 
to  fuss." 


II 

Dr.  Denzil's  was  a  strange  household,  Inasmuch  as 
it  was  typical  of  a  good  many  others  in  the  land.  Some 
mysterious  tie  had  held  it  together  that  defied  exami- 
nation, and  that  therefore  took  refuge  in  the  general 
term  "family."  Each  member  of  It  had  his  or  her 
method  of  procedure,  bent  of  mind,  idiosyncrasies  of 
temper,  and  seemed  little  disposed  to  forego  any  of 
these  little  peculiarities  in  the  interests  of  any  other 
member  of  the  household.  Consanguinity  is  a  potent 
thing,  as  also  is  custom;  their  joint  influence  was  sufii- 


140  Broken  Arcs 

ciently  strong  to  hold  together  a  family  the  units  of 
which  seemed  to  desire  nothing  so  much  as  to  fly  off 
into  space  at  a  rapid  tangent.  The  natural  forces  were 
centrifugal,  the  strange  and  mysterious  force  defying 
analysis  was  centripetal;  between  these  continual  war- 
fare waged.  That  the  centripetal  reigned  supreme 
was  only  a  continual  exasperant  to  the  centrifugal. 
They  all  wore  one  patronymic;  they  all  swore  fealty 
to  it;  they  all  regarded  It  with  restless  awe.  Mrs. 
Denzil,  when  alive,  had  shed  a  halo  over  it,  a  gracious 
aureole  that  softened  the  asperities.  Since  her  death 
the  asperities  sprang  Into  active  existence.  Harry 
knew  Dr.  Denzil  as  arrayed  in  mysterious  paternal 
robes.  To  the  robes  he  did  obeisance,  grudgingly:  the 
man  in  them  he  regarded  Indifferently,  though  so  far 
was  he  the  victim  of  the  hypnotism  exercised  by  the 
priestly  and  paternal  vestments  that  he  would  have 
sworn  to  his  affection  to  the  unrolling  of  abysmal  ages, 
had  occasion  demanded.  Dr.  Denzil  knew  Harry  as 
son  to  him,  and  seemed  to  regard  the  fact  as  a  consid- 
erable affront  to  his  dignity.  He  always  wore  the 
stilts  of  might  In  his  son's  presence ;  and  knowing  them 
uncomfortable,  seemed  to  regard  Harry  with  fierce 
malignity  for  having  forced  him  to  this  penance. 
Cicely  swung  her  own  orbit,  in  happy  disregard  of  any 
of  the  others,  were  they,  like  her,  planets,  or  was  It 
even  the  sun  and  author  of  her  corporal  being.  The 
result  was  that  whatever  she  wished  to  have,  she  had. 
She  wished  to  be  dispenser,  she  was  dispenser,  even  In 
despite  of  the  patients*  interests;  and  a  housekeeper 
was  procured  to  fulfil  the  duties  she  eschewed.  Harry 
liked  his  sister,  but  went  his  way  unconcernedly  of  her. 
She  liked  him,  but  only  requisitioned  him  when  she 
wished  something  to  be  done.  The  other  member  of 
the  household,  Bobby  by  name,  was  at  school.     To  his 


Actions  141 

periodic  returns  they  looked  forward  with  avidity,  as 
affording  the  excitement  of  change.  For  a  week  or  so 
before,  they  would  begin  to  think  on  it.  Even  Dr. 
Denzil  would  bestir  himself  to  interest.  But  Bobby 
had  not  been  in  the  house  a  few  hours  before  interest 
in  him  would  vanish  down  the  wind.  Cicely  would 
find  fault  with  him  for  some  or  other  piece  of  clumsi- 
ness; Dr.  Denzil  would  regard  him  as  another  and 
more  considerable  affront  to  his  dignity;  Harry  would 
ask,  above  all,  peace  from  him;  and  he  would  journey 
out  to  discover  some  old  crony  in  the  town  to  frater- 
nize with.  In  fact,  the  family  had  brought  the  sense- 
lessness of  corporate  existence  to  a  fine  art. 

It  had  continually  been  brought  before  Harry  that 
he  was  a  very  favoured  person.  He  had  not  long 
come  down  from  Oxford,  which  had  been  thought  nec- 
essary for  him  since  he  was  reading  for  the  Bar.  Dr. 
Denzil  had  wished  him  to  study  medicine  with  a  view 
to  aiding  him  in,  and  finally  taking  up,  his  practice. 
Harry  had  evaded  this,  however,  in  a  quietly  stubborn 
way  particularly  annoying  to  his  father.  Dr.  Denzil 
had  spoken  to  him  lengthily  on  the  subject,  and  Harry 
had  seemed  to  him  convinced  beyond  a  doubt.  But 
subsequent  events  elicited  the  fact  that  Harry^s  mind 
had  flowed  on  In  the  course  it  chose.  Inexplicably  refus- 
ing the  new  channel  hewn  out  for  it  with  such  Infinite 
labour  and  eloquence.  This  trait  of  being  mentally 
convinced,  and  yet  holding  fast  by  an  earlier  prejudice, 
perplexed  Dr.  Denzil  to  wrath.  He  denounced  It  as 
an  undesirably  feminine  trait.  But  rhetoric  was  as 
fruitless  as  eloquence. 

He  had  wished  to  convince  Harry;  he  would  prob- 
ably have  got  on  to  ruthless  enforcement,  save  for  the 
Interposition  of  Mrs.  Denzil.  This  lack  of  faith  in 
his  wife  was  the  final  despair  of  the  good  doctor.     For 


142  Broken  Arcs 

his  most  eloquent  periods  to  his  stubborn  son  had  be- 
gun with  the  moving  cadence  "your  mother  and  I." 
Her  defalcation  was  therefore  a  double  betrayal;  It 
was  not  alone  desertion  of  him,  it  was  placing  a  petard 
under  the  most  important  cornice  of  his  argument.  He 
had  submitted  with  the  air  of  one  convinced  of  the 
faithlessness  of  all  the  sons  and  daughters  of  men, 
particularly  the  daughters.  As  for  her,  no  sooner  was 
her  battle  won  than  she  had  gone  to  her  rest. 

So  he  had  gone  to  Oxford,  from  which  he  had  just 
come  down.  Early  in  the  following  year  he  proposed 
going  up  to  London  with  the  view  to  taking  up  the 
matter  more  completely.  At  present  he  was  reading 
regularly,  but  not  heavily.  He  looked  forward  with 
considerable  keenness  to  a  forensic  career;  not  that  it 
fulfilled  all  his  aspirations,  but  It  certainly  gave  him 
the  chance  to  fulfil  himself  better  than  anything  else 
he  could  think  of.  At  Oxford  he  had  excelled  in  de- 
bate, and  he  took  this  as  an  augur  of  happy  indication 
for  the  future.  He  had  not  grown  to  the  ripeness  yet 
to  see  that  what  he  had  delighted  In  was  not  the  pro- 
cesses of  arid  and  lifeless  logic,  the  proper  forensic 
business,  but  rather  the  discussion  of  eager  problems, 
the  handling  of  mighty  realities,  the  more  legitimate 
function  of  literature.  Nor  did  the  turning  of  his 
mind  towards  the  great  names  of  literature  give  him 
any  clue  as  to  his  more  real  self. 

Thus  he  had  begun  to  drift.  The  tides  have  much 
to  do  with  human  life,  as  also  the  ruling  winds.  But 
they  are  not  omnipotent.  There  is  a  rudder  at  each 
ship,  and  an  Intelligence  to  guide  it  need  not  be  want- 
ing. But  that  the  rudder  should  not  fall  Into  desue- 
tude, nor  the  intelligence  to  atrophy,  one  thing  Is  de- 
manded. It  Is  a  goal.  Whatever  the  occasion  be,  if 
there  be  no  goal,  rudders  exist  for  a  sneer  in  the  hind- 


Actions  143 

most  of  each  vessel,  and  Intelligences  become  a  hideous 
mockery.  Driftage  succeeds;  cynicism  after.  Harry 
had  found  no  goal,  for  the  Bar  was  slowly  becoming  a 
habit  of  his  thought.  It  became  a  tide,  and  he  drifted 
in  it;  as  yet  only  drifted. 


Ill 

A  SHARP  wind  was  blowing  through  Brokenfield  as 
Harry  made  his  way  through  its  streets  pensively,  one 
bottle  thrust  in  each  pocket.  November  was  drawing 
to  a  close,  and  Boreas  loomed  somewhere  away  on  his 
far  north-eastern  frontier  with  distended  cheek.  So 
well  he  blew  that  the  streets  were  already  deserted. 
Harry^s  steps  rang  out  clearly  on  the  pavements,  then 
died  suddenly  away  as  the  gusts  took  them  swiftly 
down  to  the  curling  Thames.  Now  and  then  a  sharp 
spray  of  rain  stung  his  cheek,  but  he  knew  that  when 
the  god  waxed  thus  wrath  he  had  no  time  for  tears. 
Shops  hung  out  goods  for  display;  and  as  he  passed 
their  doors  he  could  see  the  assistants  within  surrepti- 
tiously swinging  their  arms  about  their  bodies  to  in- 
duce an  Inner  warmth  to  defy  the  outer  rigours. 
Their  masters  had  in  most  cases  advisedly  betaken 
themselves  to  their  firesides,  for  custom  there  was 
none. 

His  thoughts  were  with  the  perplexity  of  Sebastian 
van  Storck  (which  the  rigour  of  the  day  impressed  on 
him)  as  he  rang  the  bell  at  Mr.  Bradley's  house. 
When  the  door  opened  his  thoughts  were  still  on  the 
Netherland  marshes,  and  he  awoke  with  a  start  to  find 
himself  contemplated  by  a  vision  whose  beauty  was 
not  even  effaced  by  her  tear-wet  eyes. 

**0h,  can  I  see  Mr.  Bradley?''  he  asked. 


144  Broken  Arcs 

"I  don't  know.  Vm  afraid  you  can't.  Can  I  give 
him  any  message?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  you  can.  My  name  is  Denzil. 
IVe  come  round  from  my  father.'' 

*'0h,  come  in,  will  you?" 

He  made  his  way  into  a  dark  hall,  and  so  into  a 
room  in  the  hearth  of  which  leapt  an  ample  fire,  to- 
wards which  he  promptly  made  his  way.  In  the  room 
a  child  was  reading,  with  ponderous  seriousness  scarce 
befitting  his  age.  No  light  had  yet  been  lit,  and  it 
seemed  a  marvel  that  reading  could  be  done. 

''Go  into  the  kitchen  for  a  while,  Jim,"  said  his  fair 
conductor;  ''there's  a  nice  fire  there." 

The  child  looked  up  with  an  uncannily  shrewd  look, 
with  a  mien  of  almost  disquieting  sagacity. 

"All  right,  mother,"  he  said,  and  disappeared  with 
his  book. 

Harry  looked  sharply  from  one  to  the  other.  It 
seemed  incredible  that  this  girl  was  a  mother,  and  the 
mother  of  such  a  child.     He  took  refuge  in  perplexity. 

"You've  come  very  quickly.  Can't  Dr.  Denzil 
come?"  she  spoke. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand  you.  I  came  round 
with  the  medicines,  our  kiddy  messenger  being  away." 

"Oh."  Her  voice  broke  off  sharply  with  under- 
standing, caught  by  a  sob.  "Mother's  dead.  We've 
just  sent  for  Dr.  Denzil." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  I  Fancy  my  not  seeing  that. 
Eh — forgive  my  obtuseness  I" 

"Of  course  you  didn't  know."  She  roused  herself 
to  defend  him  against  his  own  accusation. 

He  groped  now  in  active  perplexity.  Brokenfield 
was  sufficiently  large  a  town  to  merge  the  identities 
of  a  family,  save  when  they  figured  in  the  eye  of  osten- 
tation.    Even  so,  he  had  small  knowledge  of  its  inhab- 


Actions  145 

itants.  But  he  had  thought  the  Bradleys  to  be  child- 
less; and  this  apostrophe  of  Mrs.  Bradley  as  "mother*' 
bewildered  him.  He  grappled,  too,  with  the  perplex- 
ity, the  perennial  perplexity,  of  finding  words  fit  to  ex- 
press sympathy  from  one  who  sorrowed  not  to  another 
who  did. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  he  stumbled.  **0f  course,  I  see  it 
now.  I  had  come  with  a  message  to  Mr.  Bradley 
from  my  father.     Of  course,  that's  needless  now." 

They  stood  opposite  one  another  in  the  gloom.  He 
knew  she  wept.  He  could  not  see  her  face.  The 
shadow  of  her  sorrow  fell  on  him,  and  drew  them 
together. 

"You  will  permit  me  to  express  my  very  deep  sym- 
pathy." He  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her  as  he  spoke. 
His  voice  was  touched  with  dignity  and  tenderness. 
"Of  course,  your  trouble  is  outside  me,  but  I  do  sym- 
pathize. I,  too,  lost  a  mother  once,  though  I  was 
only  a  nipper  at  the  time." 

He  heard  her  weep;  and  her  voice  was  broken  as 
she  spoke — 

"She  was  not  really  my  mother,  though  she  acted 
like  a  real  mother  to  me.  I  only  called  her  mother. 
My — ^my  name  is  Mrs.  Foggetty." 

A  motor-car  drew  up  with  a  roar  outside  the  house. 

"That's  my  father,  I  expect,"  said  Harry.  "I  had 
better  be  going,  I  fancy." 

She  made  him  no  reply,  but  went  to  open  the  door  to 
Dr.  Denzil,  whose  voice  rang  unpleasantly  familiar  to 
Harry  in  the  hall  outside.  "No,  don't  come  up.  I 
know  my  way  up,"  he  heard  him  say  with  professional 
bonhomie.  "Mr.  Bradley  is  there,  I  suppose."  And 
with  that  he  heard  him  make  his  way  up  the  stairs. 

Rose  re-entered  from  the  now  lighted  hall. 

"I  must  go,"  said  he,  and  yet  felt  strangely  disin- 


146  Broken  Arcs 

cllned  to  go.  Moreover,  he  felt  that  she  desired  com- 
panionship. 

While  he  fought  with  his  determination  to  go,  a 
tear-stained  Alice  entered  to  light  the  gas,  and  brood- 
ing sorrow  was  suddenly  thrown  up  Into  severe  light. 
Rose,  too,  leapt  out  of  gloom  Into  distinctness,  and  her 
misty  beauty  hung  before  him  like  a  fair  dusk  that  the 
rain  eclipses.  Her  task  accomplished,  the  busy  Alice 
went,  thus  to  occupy  her  grief  with  labour,  as  fit  medi- 
cine for  sorrow.  No  such  antidote  had  Rose,  and 
Harry  stood  there  knowing  that  for  him  to  leave  her 
would  be  for  her  to  relapse  on  the  loneliness  of  sor- 
row. So  he  wished  to  stay,  and  with  native  direct- 
ness put  his  Intention  as  It  came  to  him,  couching  it  in 
the  frame  of  a  proposition. 

*'I  don't  like  leaving  you  though,  Mrs. — er — Fog- 
getty."  He  stumbled  over  the  badge  of  widowhood 
for  her.  ^'Should  I  wait  for  my  father,  do  you  think? 
Then,  you  see,  we  can  each  be  given  over  to  the  charge 
of  our  respective  parents."  He  turned  his  sentence 
to  quivering  humour  under  the  pressure  of  awkward- 
ness. 

"Thank  you,  if  you  would."  Rose  clutched  at  the 
companionship.     "Won't  you  sit  down?" 

"Thanks,  that  would  be  rather  a  happy  notion." 

Conversations  under  the  shadow  flung  by  the  wing 
of  sorrow  are  depressing  affairs.  But  Harry  threw 
no  mock  fealty  to  grief.  Her  gloomy  garments  of 
convention  he  set  lightly  aside.  Something  of  Instant 
Nature  was  in  him.  To  her  remorseless  unconcern 
for  death  he  brought,  however,  the  kindlier  because 
wiser  heart  of  man.  To  her  It  Is  nought,  a  passing 
incident  of  growth.  Her  eye  Is  ever  forward,  she 
spurns  the  backward  glance.  To  him  It  is,  for  the  liv- 
ing, an  unutterable  woe.     His  heel  wins  the  tribute  of 


Actions  147 

brutality  if  he  fails  to  foot  the  valley  of  death  with  a 
due  and  tender  tread.  Her  large  processes  are  rest- 
ful as  the  inevitable  is  restful,  merely.  If  he  wins  to 
rest,  it  is  through  cognizance  and  learned  wisdom. 

But  this  much  of  Nature  had  Harry,  that  he  failed 
to  give  to  Sorrow  more  than  was  her  meet  due.  He 
did  not  distort  his  features,  or  hang  an  arras  of  black 
uncomely  crape  over  his  heart.  He  did  not  foreswear 
jest,  for  he  knew  jest  a  very  kindly  creature.  Rose, 
therefore,  found  herself  turning  to  him  as  to  a  gracious 
breeze  that  braces  as  it  soothes.  He  knew  nothing  of 
the  household.  Had  he  done  so,  temptation  would 
doubtless  have  won  him  to  weighty  and  gloomy  con- 
dolences. As  it  was,  however,  he  turned  to  the  sub- 
jects that  lay  next  him,  and  these  happened  to  be  the 
furthest  remove  from  the  woe  that  had  smitten  her. 
He  spoke  on  subjects  political  and  literary,  and  stepped 
forward  quickly  on  ground  that  carried  him ;  for  to  his 
delight  her  mind  followed  him,  and  aided  him  by  quick 
understanding. 

They  had  not  long  to  speak  so;  nevertheless,  when 
Dr.  Denzil  came  down  the  stairs,  with  a  breeziness  ill- 
timed  because  unnatural,  followed  by  Mr.  Bradley, 
they  had  wandered  off  on  to  the  question  of  sex  in  liter- 
ature, the  functional  distinction  betwixt  masculine  and 
feminine  methods.  Dr.  Denzil's  advent  down  the 
stairs  struck  like  a  chill  blast  upon  them,  bringing  back 
cognizance  of  themselves,  with  consequent  awkward- 
ness. 

"See,  here's  my  father,  I  must  go,'*  said  Harry, 
making  his  way  into  the  hall. 

**Hullo,  Harry,  you  here!"  his  father  greeted  him, 
as  though  his  grey  paternal  eyes  had  hungered  for  so 
welcome  a  sight. 

"I've  been  here  the  whole  time,"  said  Harry  quietly, 


148  Broken  Arcs 

pulling  one  of  his  bottles  half-way  out  of  his  pocket  in 
explanation  of  his  presence  there.  "I  thought  I  would 
wait  for  you  to  go  back  with.'* 

"Quite  right,  quite  right!  I'm  glad  you  did,  my 
boy."  His  manner  was  affectionately  buoyant.  *'Brad- 
ley,  this  is  my  son;  you  haven't  met  him  yet,  have 
you?" 

"No,  but  Tm  glad  to  now."  Mr.  Bradley  spoke 
with  suppressed  quietness. 

Dr.  Denzil  seemed  to  Ignore  Rose's  presence,  and 
she  had  slipped  back  Into  the  dining-room.  When  it 
came  to  the  waving  salutation  of  farewell  Harry 
missed  her,  and  so  It  came  about  that  he  went  off  with- 
out addressing  her  again.  Rose  felt  strangely 
wounded  at  this.  She  scoffed  at  herself  for  her  folly 
in  expecting  him  to  have  sought  her  out  for  farewell. 
Nevertheless,  It  created  an  ache  in  her,  the  more  par- 
ticularly after  Dr.  DenzU's  ignoring  of  her. 

As  for  Dr.  Denzil,  on  their  rapid  journey  back 
home  he  discoursed  largely  to  an  unattentive  Harry. 
He  rolled  his  tongue  through  a  universe,  as  it  was  his 
wont  to  do.  Harry  sat  back  in  his  place,  draped 
about  with  rugs,  with  the  blood  in  him  wonderfully 
stirred  at  an  attentive  face  that  had  regarded  him,  and 
a  thought  that  gave  him  to  feel  that  understanding 
went  step  by  step  with  him.  It  opened  life  to  him, 
such  life  as  had  hovered  temptingly  in  the  distance  once 
or  twice  In  Oxford,  when  some  beauty  had  stricken 
him,  or  when  at  his  Debating  Society  attentive  brows 
gave  him  the  touch  of  power. 

Meanwhile,  beside  him  a  rolling  eloquence  poured 
out,  and  he  knew  that  there,  at  least,  he  was  decreed 
a  listener  to  the  crack  of  doom. 


Actions  149 


IV 


The  following  day  a  figure  was  seen  hovering  about 
the  corners  of  the  street  in  which  Mr.  Bradley's  house 
lay.  It  passed  the  house  once  or  twice,  coming  up  to 
it  as  though  about  to  enter,  and  then  passing  rapidly 
by.  It  took  then  to  the  other  side  of  the  road,  and 
hung  hesitatingly  about.  Then  it  disappeared.  In 
half-an-hour's  time  it  reappeared,  and,  after  more 
peripatetic  revolutions,  made  up  to  the  house  with  a 
quick  stride  and  rang  the  bell. 

Alice  appeared,  with  a  query  as  to  the  business  re- 
quired, then,  seeing  it  was  Harry,  said — 

"Oh,  Mr.  Denzil,  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Bradley?" 

"Yes,**  said  Harry,  though  it  was  not  Mr.  Bradley 
he  wished  to  see. 

He  had  taken  his  step,  and,  as  usual  with  most  such 
bold  steps,  he  knew  of  nothing  more  than  the  step  he 
had  ventured.  Everything  further  was  darkness.  As 
he  stood  in  the  cold  chill  drawing-room  he  felt  half- 
amused.  Retreat  being  impossible,  humour  was  the 
only  relief.  When  Alice  came  to  ask  him  into  the 
warmer  dining-room,  where  a  fire  and  Mr.  Bradley 
awaited  him,  he  had  not  even  defined  the  purpose  of 
his  visit.     He  left  it  to  take  shape  with  occasion. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Denzil,  it's  so  kind  of  you  to  come 
round,"  Mr.  Bradley  greeted  him  kindly.  Rose  was 
in  the  room. 

"I  came  partly  on  my  father's  account,  to  express 
his  sympathy — and  if  I  may  say  so,  mine  also — and 
partly  on  my  own  account,  to  apologize  for  my  going 
off  yesterday  without  taking  leave  of  Mrs.  Foggetty." 
The  citation  of  his  father  as  excuse  for  his  visit  was  a 
ruse  little  likely  to  be  discovered,  for  Dr.  Denzil  had 


150  Broken  Arcs 

as  a  rule  not  a  considerable  amount  of  sympathy  or 
attention  to  pour  out  on  the  families  of  defunct  pa- 
tients. It  was  not  professional  to  do  so.  He  turned 
to  Rose:  "I  hope  you  forgive  me,  it  was  horribly 
rude  of  me,  I  know;  but  I  did  look  for  you." 

She  did  forgive  him,  and  draped  him  with  royalty 
for  his  thought. 

"It's  very  kind  of  your  father,  Fm  sure,"  said  Mr. 
Bradley. 

It  was  obvious  to  Harry  that  Mr.  Bradley  strode 
quickly  over  the  uncertain  soil  of  a  wounded  heart,  so 
he  did  not  pursue  the  theme. 

"That's  all  I  came  about,  Fm  afraid,"  said  Harry, 
then.  "I  didn't  want  to  break  in  on  you  just  now,  but 
I  didn't  want  to  let  my  rudeness  go  by  with  time." 
His  attention  was  on  Rose  now.  This  humbler  house 
somehow  put  a  bitter  distaste  in  his  mouth  against  that 
which  he  called  home.  Even  in  the  shadow  of  sorrow 
it  glowed  warmly  for  him. 

"Won't  you  stay  just  a  while,  and  have  some  wine?" 
Mr.  Bradley  spoke  more  gravely  than  it  was  his  wont 
to  do.  All  his  buoyancy  seemed  crushed  out  of  him. 
His  gravity  was  preternatural.  Even  Harry,  who 
did  not  know  him,  heard  calamity  in  his  steady 
voice. 

Harry  would  stay,  and  did.  Before  their  roaring 
fire  he  sat  with  Mr.  Bradley  and  Rose,  and  spoke  on 
general  topics  with  much  less  of  deftness  than  he  had 
evinced  the  previous  evening.  He  delayed  going  as 
long  as  possible.  But  compulsion  drove  him  eventu- 
ally; and  he  took  his  way  back  to  his  home  with  an 
ache  at  the  heart  of  him. 

"What  an  exceedingly  nice  young  man,"  said  Mr. 
Bradley  to  Rose  when  Harry  had  gone,  "one  would 
never  think  him  son  to  Dr.  Denzil ;  though,  mind  you, 


Actions  151 

Dr.  DenziPs  an  admirable  man  in  his  way.  I  hope 
we  shall  see  more  of  him.     I  like  him." 

Rose  acquiesced.  Her  sentiments  spoke  louder  than 
her  speech,  but  her  thoughts  would  not  link  Dr.  DenzU 
in  any  approbation  that  was  a-wing. 

She  had  cause  to  dislike  the  Important  doctor.  That 
he  alone  In  all  Brokenfield  outside  the  Immediate 
household  of  the  Bradleys  knew  her  secret,  was  in 
truth  a  cause  of  timidity,  but  not  less  necessarily  of 
dislike.  That  he  treated  her  loftily  by  reason  of  It, 
was  sufficient  to  stir  the  deeper  antagonism  in  the 
bosom  of  a  saint.  She  made  no  pretensions  to  saint- 
hood anyway,  and  deep  In  her  heart  she  disliked  the 
doctor.     Nay,  she  rather  grew  to  despising  him. 

Jim,  her  child,  was  the  only  evidence  of  a  broken 
maidenhood.  He  It  was,  therefore,  that  called  up  the 
necessity,  first  suggested  by  Mr.  Bradley,  of  donning 
the  marital  prefix  to  her  name.  Seven  years  had  en- 
deavoured futilely  to  reconcile  her  to  the  fact.  But 
she  knew  the  world's  ostracism  for  her  misfortune,  and 
winced  at  its  judgment.  Of  late  she  had  grown  young 
again,  but  the  first  years  had  aged  her  in  appearance 
and  in  thought.  She  had  shrank  from  contact  with 
an  outer  world,  clinging  pitifully  to  the  parents  of  her 
adoption.  They  were  all  to  her,  and  by  her  very  lov- 
ing service  to  them  she  had  made  herself  dear  to  them. 
A  deep  and  genuine  affection  had  grown  up  in  the 
household;  deeper,  far  more  natural  than  much  pre- 
tended affection  vaunted  in  consanguine  ties.  She  had 
written  to  her  mother  at  Oldhamlet  telling  her  of  her 
safety,  had  Indeed  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  her  reg- 
ularly. Subsequently,  they  had  met  many  times,  by 
appointment  in  London.  Her  father  had  wished  to 
see  her,  but  she  had  resolutely  refused  to  see  him. 
This  had  brought  Its  own  cleavage  between  her  and 


152  Broken  Arcs 

her  mother,  making  their  meetings  less  frequent.  Over 
a  year  before  this  time  her  mother  had  died,  and  she 
had  not  been  informed  of  the  burial  till  after  Its  oc- 
currence. The  reason  was  obvious  to  her,  but  It  did 
not  tend  to  reconcile  her  to  Andrew  Foggetty.  Save 
that  he  had  taken  a  smaller  farm,  still  near  Oldham- 
let,  she  heard  nothing  of  him.  She  had  been  trans- 
planted, however,  Into  such  a  home  as  she  had  not 
hitherto  known,  and  youth  came  again  upon  her. 

Yet,  even  now,  having  grown  to  youth  again,  she 
shrank  from  contact  with  the  world.  The  spirit  may 
not  ever  be  broken.  It  will  ever  regenerate  a  crushed 
wound.  So,  after  her  first  years  of  bitterness  and 
ageing,  her  bloom  of  youth  threw  up  its  head  again 
into  the  day  of  sun,  to  expand  and  burgeon  to  Its  own 
fit  beauty.  And  It  succeeded.  She  was  younger  now 
than  she  had  been  four  years  back.  Her  cheeks  were 
fuller;  they  wore  fresher  roses;  her  eye  grew  more 
lustrous;  her  manner  gayer;  but,  deeper  still  and  more 
important  yet,  her  mind  grew  less  bitter,  less  pitifully 
tender  and  sensitive;  her  spirit  seemed  less  and  less 
that  of  a  broken,  wounded,  fluttering  bird,  seeking  to 
wing  the  air,  but  clinging  pathetically  to  earth,  giving 
fearful  attention  to  hedgerows  and  shelter,  thinking 
hungrily  of  the  vast  blue  depths  its  kindred  flew.  She 
came  back  to  life.  But  her  son  was  a  bitter  hindrance 
to  her.  Not  only  by  his  very  existence.  For  the  crises 
she  passed  through  as  she  bore  him  were  hung  out  in 
his  character  for  a  perpetual  reminder  to  her.  He 
had  been  sturdy  enough  of  body,  but  strange  of  mind. 
Not  that  insanity  touched  him.  Rather,  he  was  preter- 
naturally  sane.  If  Insanity  Is  not  the  obsession  of  the 
mind  to  one  thing  to  the  preclusion  of  all  others,  then 
it  is  nothing.  This  is  the  test  of  insanity;  and  Its  con- 
trary is  the  test  of  sanity.     The  opposite  to  insanity 


Actions  153 

Is  wisdom;  and  wisdom  Is  the  mind  embracing  the 
largest  possible  range  of  existent  facts — contradictory 
or  not,  even  though  they  defy  synthesis ;  for  Truth,  the 
goal  of  Wisdom,  may  not  neglect  anything  that  exists. 
Though  we  see  her  not,  she  Is  the  synthesis  of  all, 
fused  Into  a  magnificent  unity  of  perfection. 

Jim  Foggetty — for  even  the  State  may  not  deny  a 
child  taking  his  mother's  name,  even  though  It  cruelly 
taunt  his  misfortune — had  a  preternaturally  sane  mind. 
It  mocked  his  youth.  His  width  of  perception,  the 
astonishing  range  and  accuracy  of  his  Instinct,  was  un- 
canny. He  went  early  to  books.  He  neglected  all 
accidentals  of  life.  He  quivered  with  vitality;  but 
shunned  society  with  deadly  fear.  His  perception  of 
truth  In  persons  was  swift  and  incisive.  He  saw  with 
equal  swiftness  Into  falsehood,  exposing  It  with  fear- 
ful judgment.  In  all  this  Rose  saw  the  progress, 
ripening,  and  cataclysm  In  her  own  mind  as  she  bore 
him.  She  saw  It  not  less  In  the  trances  of  thought 
that  often  held  him.  She  saw  it  in  the  revulsions  of 
people,  even  herself,  that  seized  on  him  sometimes  like 
a  fit.  She  saw  It  all,  and  was  amazed  to  see  that  her 
tragedy  had  been  so  terrible  as  to  shape  her  very  son 
in  the  mould  and  spirit  of  It. 

Yet  It  was  a  continual  reminder  to  her,  and  served 
to  retard  the  bloom  of  youth  that  sought  to  expand. 
Yet,  so  much  of  wisdom  Is  there  In  all  things  that 
happen,  even  this  had  Its  gain.  For  so  as  youth  came 
again.  It  came  with  a  newer,  fuller  wisdom.  It  was 
not  sufficed  to  come  In  forgetfulness  of  the  lessons  of 
the  past.  It  had  come  by  now,  but  It  had  come  slowly. 
The  sun  had  shone  again,  but  It  was  joined  with  an 
elder  strength,  a  wider  radiance,  a  loftier  brilliance, 
than  before.  Her  strong  emotional  nature,  fierce  with 
all  proper  heats,  had   met    the  shock  of  an  empiric 


[154  'Broken  Arcs 

world.  The  shock  had  laid  her  soul  in  dust.  But 
now  that  her  nature  had  blossomed  again,  It  was  no 
less  forceful  than  before,  no  less  primitive  of  Impul- 
sion and  strength,  but  more  sagacious,  firmer  in  its 
garnered  knowledge  and  understanding. 

Such  was  the  Rose  Foggetty  that  Harry  Denzil  had 
met. 


A  FEW  days  later,  as  Rose  and  Mr.  Bradley  stood 
beside  the  open  graveside — with  the  others  that  had 
come  down  to  Brokenfield  for  the  occasion,  near  of  kin 
to  the  dead — she  saw  standing  aside,  with  bared  head, 
Harry  Denzil,  and  was  warmed  at  the  sight.  A  pang 
shot  through  her  as  she  compared  him  with  the  strange 
old  people  that  had  come  down  to  sorrow;  heavy- 
figured,  heavy-minded,  heavy-souled,  all  of  them.  She 
turned  to  the  murmuring  of  the  service,  however,  and 
afterwards  she  missed  him. 

After  this  he  became  a  frequent  visitor  round  at  the 
house,  conversing  on  politics  not  only  with  Mr.  Brad- 
ley himself,  but  also  taking  care  to  introduce  her  into 
the  field.  He  took  to  bringing  her  books,  and  to  dis- 
cussing them  with  her.  He  never  saw  the  widow  In 
her,  since  Jim  seldom  came  near  them.  Once  Harry 
met  the  child,  and,  being  amazed  at  his  wild  sagacity, 
fell  to  conversing  with  him  as  to  a  man  of  equal  age 
with  him.  This  Rose  noticed,  and  attributed  to  kind- 
liness. But  to  him,  subsequently,  it  gave  considerable 
cause  of  perplexity  and  cogitation.  He  took  to  imag- 
ining Rose  not  a  maiden,  and  it  revolted  him.  He 
called  it  an  unclean  thought  of  his  that  he  should  deem 
a   function   of    Nature    an   unclean   thing:    and   this 


Jettons  155^ 

brought  him  back  to  sanity.  It  gave  him  a  field  of 
combat,  nevertheless.  But  when  he  next  saw  Rose, 
his  perplexities  flew  down  the  wind. 

In  fine,  he  was  warming  to  her,  and  she,  less  rapidly, 
to  him,  half  wittingly  maybe,  but  without  deliberate 
cognizance  of  themselves.  He  saw  conquest  before 
him;  and  strode  to  it.  He  had  learnt  the  fact  that 
the  Impetuous  will  Is  half  the  battle  with  women.  It 
was  self-knowledge  with  him,  and  he  yearned  for  an 
opportunity  to  manifest  power.  The  human  soul  pants 
for  power,  and  at  home  he  was  bruised  and  battered 
with  the  power  that  some  one  else  not  only  panted  for, 
but  achieved.  Here  a  fair  victory  opened  to  him:  it 
wooed  him,  and  he  floated  to  it.  Moreover,  Life 
opened  to  him.  Life  called  across  the  waters,  and  he 
snatched  the  rudder.  A  goal  beckoned  him,  and  he 
steered  for  it  with  firm  hand  and  ardent  thought. 


VI 

The  weeks  went  forward,  and  she  began  to  grow 
aware  of  herself.  With  that,  fear  set  In.  Fear  awoke, 
and  called  to  distrust;  the  voice  of  distrust  sounded 
the  note  to  alarm,  that  called  with  clarion  tongue 
through  her  soul. 

"Not  for  me,  not  for  me,"  she  uttered  to  herself. 
"If  he  knew  my  story  he  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  me.  They^re  all  the  same.  Besides,  I  value  my 
freedom  too  much.  A  woman  doesn't  give  up  that 
sort  of  thing  now-a-days.  I'm  bound  to  stick  now  to 
father  here,  but  later  on  I  may  be  useful.  Yes,  the 
past  is  really  a  blessing,  or  it  may  be ;  at  any  rate,  it 
lies  with  me  to  make  it  so.     No,  I  won't  throw  it  all 


156  Broken  Arcs 

away*.  I  want  freedom.  I  certainly  don't  want  to  be 
spurned  as  I  certainly  will  be  if  this  goes  on.'* 

Thus  when  Harry  next  came  round  to  the  house 
Rose  was  not  to  be  discovered. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Denzil,"  said  Mr.  Bradley.  "Sit 
down,  and  let's  talk.     Rose'U  be  here  in  a  minute.'* 

So  they  talked,  Mr.  Bradley  seeking  for  elucidation 
for  some  knotty  points  In  a  bill  that  was  engaging 
Parliament. 

"Bless  the  girl!  Wherever  can  she  have  got  to?" 
exclaimed  Mr.  Bradley  presently.  He  hailed  her  from 
an  open  door. 

"I'm  helping  Alice  with  the  Ironing,"  came  a  voice 
up  the  stairs,  sounding  knell-like  on  Harry's  ear. 

"But  Denzil— Mr.  Denzil's  here!" 

"I'll  be  up  presently.  You  go  on  talking.  Leave 
men  alone  for  talking:  women  aren't  In  it  with  them." 

"Cheeky  Imp,"  muttered  Mr.  Bradley,  with  a  smile 
of  pleased  tolerance  at  the  sally.  All  she  did  was 
good  to  him. 

Gloom  shrouded  Harry  as  time  passed,  and  she  did 
not  appear.  It  was  only  as  he  prepared  to  go  that  she 
came  to  say  farewell.  He  looked  deep  reproach  at 
her,  but  she  avoided  his  glance.  Yet,  now  she  was 
with  him  she  was  strangely  thrilled.  Had  Mr.  Brad- 
ley not  been  there  he  would  have  spoken  his  reproach. 
He  had  to  leave  It  unuttered,  but  he  felt  she  was  not 
unaware  of  it. 

He  felt  bitter  as  he  walked  home  in  the  frosty  moon- 
light. The  houses  were  limned  clearly  and  coldly; 
sleeping  peacefully  in  a  glister  of  frost,  under  an  arch 
of  silver  night.  The  pavements  scintilated  beneath 
his  eye  as  he  paced  them.  He  was  annoyed.  He  was 
annoyed  with  her;  though,  as  her  figure  floated  before 
his  memory,  he  found  it  hard  to  be  so.     But  it  touched 


Jettons  157 

him  to  fierce  obstinacy;  It  aroused  him  to  combative- 
ness.  He  had  scarcely  wooed  her  hitherto;  he  had, 
rather,  lazily  enjoyed  her  companionship.  Woo  her 
henceforth  now,  he  determined  to,  even  though  It  were 
an  obstinate  wooing  withal.  Previously  when  he  had 
fought  the  thought  of  her  widowhood,  It  had  bested 
him.  Despite  the  fact  that  he  knew  It  for  a  touch  of 
fastidious  unhealthlness  In  him,  a  selfish.  If  not  brutal, 
lust  for  a  paradlsal  hourl,  the  carnal  fact  had  obtruded 
on  his  revulsion.  Now  It  was  whelmed  by  a  tidal  wave 
of  wilful  pugnacity.  He  paced  the  night  with  his  de- 
termination. He  knew  she  had  resisted  him,  though 
why  he  knew  not.  It  had  called  In  her  voice  up  the 
stairs.  It  lay  on  the  firm  attitude  of  her  shoulders  as 
she  stood  In  the  hall  beside  him.  He  knew — ^knew 
now  Indisputably — that  she  was  not  averse  to  him, 
else  why  this  determination  In  avoiding  him?  "Rum 
things,  women;  but,  by  Jove!" — And  with  the  adjura- 
tion he  called  the  hosts  of  battle  up  in  his  mind. 

That  night  he  turned  the  latch  at  an  unusually  late 
hour;  and  as  he  took  off  his  coat  In  the  hall,  he  heard 
his  father's  voice  calling  him  from  the  consulting 
room. 

"Where  have  you  been,  Harry?**  was  the  question 
that  greeted  him  as  he  made  his  appearance. 

"Out  for  a  walk." 

"Do  you  generally  go  for  such  lengthy  walks  on 
winter  evenings?" 

"Sometimes,  yes."  Harry's  heart  beat  heavily  as 
he  faced  his  father.  All  his  children  feared  their 
father,  though  Cicely  overflew  It  sometimes  in  defi- 
ance. 

"YouVe  not  been  to  the  Bradley's,  I  suppose." 

Harry's  hope  fell:  his  heart  beat  yet  more  heavily. 

"Whatever  makes  you  think  that?"  he  asked. 


158  Broken  Arcs 

"Never  mind  what  makes  me  ask  it  I  Have  you?" 
The  voice  spoke  in  irascible  mastery. 

"No."  Harry  winced  as  he  spoke.  A  lover  of 
truth  he  hated  the  lie,  and  despised  its  spokesman  as 
he  uttered  the  word.  It  was  begotten,  like  most  lies, 
of  fear.  Dr.  Denzil  and  Harry  shared  it  between 
them.  A  lie  to  a  parent  is  a  dreadful  thing,  fre- 
quently occasioned  by  the  parent. 

"Because  it's  not  my  wish  that  you  should  go  to  that 
house,"  went  on  the  paternal  injunction. 

"May  I  ask  the  objection?" 

"It's  quite  sufficient  for  you  that  I  say  so.  I  have 
my  reasons.  As  you  know,  I  generally  have  my  rea- 
sons for  what  I  say.  I  think  you'll  do  wisely  to  leave 
it  at  that." 

Harry  stood  amazed.  He  wondered  how  his  father 
knew  of  his  visits.     He  asked  the  question. 

"May  I  ask,  father,  what  makes  you  connect  me  up 
with  Mr.  Bradley?"     He  was  careful  to  avoid  Rose. 

"Oh,  I  happened  to  meet  Mr.  Bradley  in  the  town 
the  other  day,  and  he  seemed  to  speak  of  an  increasing 
intimacy  with  you.  You'll  be  pleased  to  know  that  he 
was  kind  enough  rather  to  approve  of  you.  Anyhow, 
they're  not  the  kind  of  people  we  Denzils  mix  with. 
And  besides  that,  I  have  other  reasons.  I  hope  I  make 
my  wish  clear  to  you?" 

Harry  stood  before  his  father,  mute. 

"Do  you  understand  me?" 

Still  there  came  no  reply. 

"Do  you  hear  me,  Harry?" 

"Yes,  father."     The  words  fell  slowly,  obstinately. 

"Very  well,  then.  That's  all,  Harry.  Good- 
night!" 

"Good-night  1" 

Harry's  valedictory  had  fight  in  it  as  he  turned  from 


Actions  159 

the  room  and  swung  the  door  after  him.  He  grunted 
as  he  made  his  way  up  the  stairs  to  his  room.  When 
there  he  lit  his  pipe,  and,  sitting  up  In  his  chair, 
thought  out  things.  "The  Renaissance"  eyed  him: 
futilely,  fruitlessly.  Deeper,  more  personal,  things 
were  at  hand;  and  he  joined  issue  with  them. 

"I'll  show  them  who  wins  things — her  and  him — 
by  Jove!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  leapt  Into  bed. 


VII 

Rose  had  felt  Harry's  reproach,  and  she  challenged 
Its  occasion.  Who  was  she  to  Harry  Denzil,  or  Harry 
Denzil  to  her?  Even  though  he  knew  not  of  it,  she 
knew  only  too  well  that  there  was  an  impenetrable 
barrier  betwixt  them;  and  while  she  bewailed  it,  she 
clung  to  It  In  hope  of  security  thereby.  Never  again 
would  she  permit  disillusion  to  break  in  on  Jier.  She 
fenced  such  occasion  as  might  bring  it. 

Thus  when  next  Harry  called  she  avoided  him 
again.  She  was  In  the  room  as  he  entered,  and  de- 
cency enjoined  that  she  should  continue  so  awhile. 
When  she  rose  to  leave  she  avoided  his  eyes,  for  she 
knew  they  were  on  her,  large  with  reproach.  Fairy 
fingers  plucked  at  her  own  heart.  But  she  eschewed 
all  temptation  to  stay,  whether  It  sprang  from  herself, 
or  came  from  him. 

Her  going  wrought  him  to  such  a  pass  that  he  even 
revealed  his  state  to  Mr.  Bradley.  He  missed  strands 
of  conversation,  and  in  attempting  to  pick  them  up 
subsequently  he  picked  up  the  wrong  ones,  making 
havoc  of  the  tissue.  Preoccupation  bound  him  about, 
and  it  was  evident  an  Inner  fury  possessed  him.  Since 
his  wife's  death  Mr.  Bradley  had  been  preoccupied  and 


i6o  Broken  Arcs 

had  not  sought  to  find  an  occasion  for  Harry*s  visits. 
Now  It  was  only  too  apparent  to  him  what  the  occa- 
sion was. 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  he  asked,  referring  to  a  five 
minutes'  disquisition  by  himself  on  the  nearness  of  a 
general  election. 

*Tes,  yes,  I  do,"  stumbled  Harry,  after  an  unac- 
countable silence  of  deliberation.  Rose  had  gone  out 
deliberately  to  avoid  him,  that  was  apparent.  Yet 
she  was  no  coquette:  she  was  too  deeply  sincere  for  a 
coquette;  he  was  prepared  to  wager  that.  What  was 
it,  then?     Was  she  worth  his  effort? 

"Well,  it's  the  first  time  I've  found  you  quite  so 
easily  convinced,  I  must  say."  Mr.  Bradley  regarded 
Harry  closely. 

Harry  looked  up  with  an  effort  at  whimsicality. 

"To  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Bradley,  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't 
paying  very  close  attention.  I'm — I'm  a  bit  bothered 
to-day." 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Bradley,  shortly,  half-humorously. 

Harry  regarded  Mr.  Bradley  with  reciprocal  keen- 
ness; and  imagined  his  secret  read.  This  urged  him 
to  swiftness.  But  how  should  swiftness  be  achieved 
with  one  that  eluded  him?  He  laughed  at  defeat  with 
her  nigh  handy  to  win.  But  equally  victory  mocked 
him  while  she  shrouded  herself  with  distance. 

As  he  gazed  at  the  glowing  coals  unhappily,  seek- 
ing to  achieve  a  thought  that  eluded  him  In  the  ambush 
of  uncertainty,  he  heard  the  door,  and,  turning  quickly, 
half  hoping  to  discover  Rose,  he  saw  Jim  come  In  with 
opened  book  in  his  hand.  Seeing  him,  Jim  had  shrunk 
back;  and  stood  in  the  half-opened  door  regarding  him 
with  contemplative  eyes. 

A  quick  hope  hung  out  to  Harry,  and  he  ex- 
claimed— 


Actions  :i6l 

*'Hullo,  Jim!" 

The  boy  came  forward  slowly  with  outstretched 
hand,  still  regarding  him  with  serious  contempla- 
tion. 

"I  came  to  ask  grandpa  the  meaning  of  a  word,"  he 
explained  slowly,  never  moving  his  eyes  off  Harry's 
face. 

"Well,  youVe  got  a  better  man  here  than  I,  Jimmy," 
laughed  Mr.  Bradley. 

"What  is  It,  old  chap?"  said  Harry,  holding  out  his 
hand.  Though  he  had  initially  decided  on  playing  for 
a  higher  game  than  mental  elucidation  for  Jim  Fog- 
getty,  something  preternaturally  grave  and  yet  in- 
tensely loveable  about  the  lad  won  to  Harry's  affec- 
tion, and  he  forgot  the  mother  in  her  son. 

"Iconoclast,"  said  Jim,  stumbling  over  the  word, 
and  giving  it  a  strange  quantity  indeed. 

"Let's  see  the  book,"  said  Harry,  drawing  out  of 
Jim's  hand  a  calf-bound  volume  of  history  that  Mr. 
Bradley  had  bought  on  his  retirement  from  business 
even  as  he  might  have  bought  a  china  vase,  for  dis- 
tinctive decoration,  and  which  Jim  was  now  putting  to 
its  first  perusal. 

As  he  drew  the  book  away  from  Jim,  Jim  himself 
drew  nearer  to  Harry.  Whereupon  Harry  drew  up 
to  one  side  of  the  capacious  chair  he  had  sought  to 
occupy,  saying — 

"Plenty  of  room  for  two  young  men,  Jim.  Come 
along,  and  we'll  talk  about  it.  You  see,  this  man's 
talking  about  iconoclasts  of  one  kind,  and  I  rather 
want  to  have  a  spout  about  iconoclasts  of  another 
kind.  He  means  image-breakers;  but  there's  another 
kind  of  iconoclast  you'll  come  across  soon  enough  that 
wants  to  break  up  things  other  people  think  beautiful 
and  find  useful  just  because  he  doesn't  like  them.     I'll 


1 62  Broken  Arcs 

forgive  the  first,  but  we  won't  have  the  other.  Com- 
fortable?'' 

"Yes,"  murmured  Jim,  sinking  mystification  in 
affection. 

Mr.  Bradley  regarded  the  two  with  an  expanding 
smile.  He  continued  so  to  regard  them,  and  his 
thoughts  were  strange  and  tender.  It  was  well  for 
Harry  that  Mr.  Bradley's  discovery  of  his  secret  was 
so  soon  to  be  followed  by  this  scene.  For  Mr.  Brad- 
ley shrank  from  losing  Rose;  but  he  shrank  over  and 
above  all  from  permitting  a  possible  spurning  of  Rose 
to  come  on  her.  A  Denzll,  even  Harry  Denzil,  would 
not  have  found  It  possible  to  overlook  Rose's  calamity, 
even  though  infatuation  so  far  overwhelmed  him  as 
to  put  a  light  regard  on  her  lowly  origin,  and  the  hum- 
ble home  that  had  found  her  a  shelter.  But  this  scene 
touched  him. 

He  rang  for  Alice.  When  this  antique  dame  ap- 
peared he  said — 

*'BrIng  in  some  wine  and  biscuits,  will  you,  Alice? 
And  tell  Rose  to  come  In  too,  I  want  her." 

When  Rose  appeared  he  said — 

"Ah,  Rose,  my  dear!  Come  in  and  sit  down  and 
talk.  Those  two  young  men  have  paired  off,  you  see, 
and  I've  got  no  company." 

Something  caught  at  Rose's  heart  as  she  surveyed 
the  spectacle.  It  won  to  her  with  a  silver  tongue. 
No  one  had  achieved  victory  over  Jim  so  readily  or  so 
completely.  Harry  knew  she  had  entered,  but  took  no 
notice  of  her. 

"Look  pretty,  don't  they.  Rose?"  said  Mr.  Bradley 
softly  to  her. 

Rose  shunned  the  word  "pretty,"  but  agreed  with 
the  senriment.  Moreover,  It  was  strange;  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  explain;  it  was  even  hard  to  own  to;  but  she  felt 


Actions  163 

more  than  a  little  wounded  that  Harry  should  take  no 
notice  of  her,  giving  up  his  exclusive  attention  to  Jim. 
Mr.  Bradley  was  father  to  her,  as  she  had  never  had  a 
father;  and  she  enjoyed  to  converse  with  him.  But  it 
was  not  easy,  nor  so  desirable,  when  the  third  person 
who  lately  had  made  their  triangular  conversations 
like  air  taken  on  snowy  regions,  pure  and  Invigorating 
to  the  jaded  thought,  was  occupied  otherwise,  and  gave 
them  only  neglect.  She  knew  the  state  of  her  emo- 
tions. The  past  had  made  it  well-nigh  impossible  for 
her  to  neglect  self-knowledge.  She  had  determined  to 
resist  herself  lest  a  worse  calamity  should  befall  her. 
But  in  nursing  injury  she  fell  to  weakness,  even  as 
Harry's  interest  In,  and  affection  for,  Jim  fanned  her 
mother's  heart  to  flame  of  new  regard  for  him  who 
had  occasioned  it.  She  heard  it  not;  but  there  was  a 
clatter  about  her,  betokening  the  falling  of  some  of  the 
pieces  of  armour  with  which  she  had  lately  encased 
herself. 

When  Harry  rose  to  go  she  was  tenderer  to  him, 
tenderer  even  because  of  a  lurking  reproach.  He  was 
gaiety  itself.     No  reproaches  came  from  him  now. 

Jim  accompanied  him  to  the  hall:  Mr.  Bradley  did 
not.  Therefore  he  held  her  hand  rather  longer  than 
politeness  demanded  as  necessary,  and  even  caressed 
it  gently,  as  he  said — 

*'I  shall  be  round  on  the  afternoon  of  Christmas 
Eve.  I  shall  have  a  book  which  I  should  like  this 
young  man  to  read " 

"Oh,  don't  bother  about  that,  Mr.  Denzil,"  she 
broke  In. 

"I  don't  intend  to,"  he  said  gently.  "I  only  do  it 
because  I  should  like  to  very  much.  I  hope  I  won't 
fail  to  see  you  then." 

"I  expect  I  shall  be  in."     Her  eyes  fell  before  his. 


56fj,  Broken  Arcs 

"I  expect  so,  too.     But  that  wasn*t  what  I  said." 

He  was  smiling  at  her.  She  could  not  but  smile 
back. 

"Shall  I  see  you  then?"  he  asked  again. 

"I  expect  so,"  she  replied. 

"I  take  that  for  promise."  He  forebore  pressing 
her  further.  *'Good-bye,  Jim.  We'll  have  many  a 
jaw  yet,  you  and  I." 

He  was  gone.  Rose  turned  in,  softened,  but  more 
perplexed.  She  went  to  her  room,  and  the  situation 
won  tears  from  her. 


VIII 

The  following  morning  after  breakfast,  as  Harry 
endeavoured  helplessly  to  busy  himself  In  the  princi- 
ples of  statutory  equity — an  elusive  faun  that  would 
defy  the  optimist  of  stoutest  head — Cicely  burst  in  on 
him. 

*'Busy,  old  boy?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Bit,  yes.     Want  anything?" 

"Only  to  have  a  chat." 

"Fire  ahead."  Harry  thrust  a  neat  tape  into  his 
book  to  mark  its  place,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  He 
inclined  his  attention  to  Cicely. 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  swinging  one  leg 
restlessly.  She  seemed  to  have  some  difficulty  In  get- 
ting under  way  with  what  she  had  to  say.  Some  diffi- 
dence, moreover. 

"Get  on  with  it,"  said  he. 

"I  say,  it  was  funny  the  way  you  went  round  to  the 
Bradleys  that  day,  and  met  father  there." 

"Funny?" 

"Well,  strange." 


Actions  165 

"I  suppose  it  was." 

*What  did  you  think  of  Mr.  Bradley?" 

'Think  ofm?" 

*Tes.     I  wish  you  wouldn^t  echo  me." 

"Oh,  a  most  extraordinary  man." 

"So  I've  heard." 

"Oh!  what  is  it  youVe  heard?" 

"He  has  risen,  hasn't  he?"  She  gave  peculiar  value 
to  "risen." 

"Ah,  yes;  used  to  be  quite  a  little  beggar  once. 
Couldn't  talk;  couldn't  walk.  But  he's  quite  a  big 
chap  now.     Five  foot  nine.     Wonderful." 

"That  wasn't  what  I  meant.  You  know  very  well 
what  I  meant.     Why  can't  you  talk  sensibly?" 

"If  your  ladyship  would  only  explain!" 

"You  always  go  on  like  that  when  I  talk  to  you.  I 
want  to  talk  seriously,  can't  you  see?" 

"Oh!"  He  folded  his  hands  over  his  abdomen, 
and  looked  smug. 

She  looked  down  at  him,  then  laughed.  Going  over 
to  him,  and  shaking  him  by  the  shoulder,  she  said — 

"You're  a  most  annoying  man,  Harry.  You  always 
go  on  in  that  silly  way  when  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"But  I'm  listening;  I'm  all  ears." 

"But  how  can  I  talk  seriously  to  you  when  you  look 
like  that?" 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  I'm  sure.  But  I  can't 
help  my  looks,  madam.  My  father's  part  responsible 
for  that." 

"You're  silly."  She  pouted  a  bit.  She  had  cause, 
for  she  was  being  ridden  off  saying  what  she  came  to 
say;  and  she  knew  it.  He,  too,  knew  it.  She  was 
fairly  transparent  to  him. 

"I  say,  Cicely,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Well?" 


1 66  Broken  Arcs 

"You  know  youVe  very  beautiful." 

"Don't  be  a  fool." 

"There  you  are,  you  see !  That's  what  you  get  for 
trying  to  be  polite,  even  at  the  cost  of  truth." 

"What!" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no  I  I  didn't  mean  that,  of  course. 
Your  charms  are  superlative.  That  blue  eye  of 
yours!"     He  rose  and  inspected  her. 

"I  wonder  when  you'll  learn  to  be  sensible,"  she 
said,  returning  him  stare  for  stare. 

"Ah,  I  wonder!" 

"I  came  in  here  to  talk  sensibly." 

"I  say!" 

"Well!" 

"What  do  you  think  of  our  father?'* 

"That's  got  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  thought  it 
had." 

He  quizzed  her  closely;  and  she  braved  him  out. 

"Rum  old  devil,  isn't  he?" 

"Harry!" 

"I  mean — er — queer  old  fish!" 

"I  know  what  you  mean." 

"What  do  I  mean?" 

"You  mean,  I've  been  talking  to  him.  Because  if 
so " 

"I  didn't  mean  anything  of  the  kind." 

"What  did  you  mean?" 

"I  meant  he'd  been  talking  to  you."  He  looked 
still  closer  at  her. 

"Well,  then,  he  has.     And  I  think  he's  quite  right." 

"So  do  I. — What!     Are  you  going?" 
1  am. 

"He's  not  in  the  consulting-room  now,  you  know!" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 


Jettons  167 

"I  mean,  I  heard  the  motor  go  off  a  few  minutes 
back.'' 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  going  to  father."  Her  nose  was  in 
the  air  loftily,  and  her  tones  stiff  with  hauteur. 

He  sat  back  in  the  chair  with  his  book.  But  just 
as  the  door  was  about  to  close,  he  called  out — 

"Cicely!" 

She  reappeared,  with  interrogation  printed  on  her 
face. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  trot  you  out  this  afternoon?" 

"Sir!" 

"Trot  you  out,  I  said." 

"If  you'd  like  to  be  honoured  with  my  company, 
I'll  let  you." 

"Same  thing." 

"On  the  contrary,  quite  a  different  thing." 

"Well?     What  do  you  say?" 

"I'll  let  you  know  at  lunch.  But  I  think  it's  very 
likely  I'll  let  you  come  with  me." 

She  had  gone.  His  book  lay  listless  on  his  knees. 
Statutory  equity  seemed  more  unreal  than  ever;  a 
phantasm  thrice  phantasmal.  For  it  was  evident  to 
him  that  his  father  was  working.  And  he  did  not 
trust  his  father.  He  expected  no  honour  in  a  war 
waged  with  him;  for  Dr.  Denzil  held  that  honour  to 
one's  own  children  was  an  indignity.  What  his  father 
was  doing,  or  would  do,  he  knew  not.  He  heard 
Bobby  go  out  of  the  front  door,  slamming  it  after  him, 
and  envied  his  freedom  from  home  for  so  long  a  time 
during  the  year.  Circumstance  from  every  side  was 
pressing;  and  he  determined  to  leap  to  his  coveted 
crag,  and  stand  and  face  them  all. 


1 6 8  ^Broken  Arcs 


IX 

The  weather  had  been  bitterly  frosty.  What  of 
snow  had  fallen  had  held  the  soil  In  purity  and  soft 
refulgence.  Even  the  sun  had  thrown  out  frosty  rays, 
augmenting  rathi^r  than  reducing  the  keen  air  that  bit 
the  cheek.  Wiseacres  had  prognosticated  a  "real 
Christmas,"  and  the  populace  had  clung  to  the  hope 
that  even  such  a  Christmas  as  had  blessed  their  fore- 
fathers, if  tradition  was  anyway  to  be  relied  on  for 
accuracy,  was  to  bless  them  that  year.  Each  and  all 
exulted  in  the  thought,  and  for  some  deep  and  mysteri- 
ous reason  unknown,  it  had  undoubtedly  augmented 
trade.  All  were  pleased;  they  who  spent  no  less  than 
they  who  received:  which  is  a  sufficiently  happy  state 
in  human  affairs  to  merit  the  celebration  of  an  angelic 
choir  to  Itself. 

But  the  peace  and  good-will  was  rudely  snapped. 
The  multitudes  awoke  on  Christmas  Eve  to  find  rain  in 
possession  of  the  scene.  A  sudden  warmth  came  with 
it,  and  mists,  moreover.  With  ironic  swiftness  the 
"real  old-fashioned  Christmas"  had  vanished  into  air, 
into  thin  air;  and  anathemas  took  its  field. 

Through  such  an  unhappy  town  Harry  took  his  way. 
His  heart  beat  high.  He  had  won  the  reputation 
occasionally  for  aplomb.  He  himself  wondered  at  it, 
for  nervousness  bound  him  in  Its  merciless  toils  at 
every  crucial  moment.  Mists  rose  before  his  eyes,  a 
great  smith  beat  mighty  blows  on  his  heart,  and  In- 
capacity taunted  him  always  when  occasion  rose  most 
buxom  with  moment.  That  he  should  have  won 
through  them  at  all  was  sufficiently  mysterious  to  him. 
That  he  should  win  praise  in  them  seemed  like  the 
voice  of  mockery. 


'Actions  169 

Such  nervousness  bound  him  as  he  made  his  way 
through  the  streets.  It  grappled  with  him,  seeking  to 
hurl  him  into  the  abysses  of  cowardice  as  he  knocked 
at  the  house  and  asked,  not  this  time  for  Mr.  Bradley, 
but  directly  for  Rose. 

''Mrs.  Foggetty  is  in  the  dining-room,  sir,  if  you'll 
step  in,"  said  Alice. 

Harry  did  step  in,  and  quickly,  though  with  beating 
heart,  lest  Rose  should  evade  him. 

He  met  her  coming  across  the  room  as  though  to  go 
out.  Little  he  knew  what  cogitations  had  rocked  her 
these  past  few  days !  Little  he  knew  how  an  old 
wound  had  been  opened  in  her,  wasting  her  strength, 
harrowing  her  mind,  making  her  fear  him  as  she  had 
never  known  fear  before,  making  her  determine  never 
to  see  him  again,  never  even  to  let  Jim  see  him  again, 
drenching  her  pillows  with  tears,  and  her  nights  even 
more  with  anxiety.  He  only  knew  she  was  alone  in 
the  room.  She  had  tried  to  evade  him,  but  he  frus- 
trated her. 

"Fll  go  and  bring  father,"  she  murmured,  seeking 
to  pass  him. 

''Don't  go,"  he  said,  in  very  desperation  striking  at 
this  opportunity. 

She  drew  away  from  him. 

"I  brought  this  book  for  Jim.  I  wish  It  as  a  Christ- 
mas present.  Will  you — will  you  give  it  to  him  to- 
morrow morning  from  me?"  He  held  It  out  In  Its 
wrappages. 

"Oh,  you  shouldn't  have  done  that."  She  eyed  It 
in  her  hand,  and  was  near  tears.  Little  he  knew, 
thought  she,  the  history  that  had  occasioned  Jim,  and 
determined  to  fend  the  moment  he  sought  that  would 
make  the  story  necessary. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked.     "It  was  a  great  pleasure 


170  Broken  Arcs 

to  me.  I  like  Jim  very  much,  apart  from  the  fact  that 
he  Is  your  child." 

The  blood  took  her  cheek,  and  beat  quickly  In  her 
veins  at  the  remark.  She  was  silent  before  him. 
Nervousness,  the  fell  smith,  beat  on  Its  anvil  as  he 
surveyed  her.  In  him  and  her. 

'*I  brought  this,  too,  for  yourself."  He  drew  a 
small  parcel  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  It  to  her. 

"For  me?"  Her  eyes  lifted  to  his.  He  saw  some- 
thing In  their  depths  that  quieted  him,  assured  him. 

She  held  the  packet  hesitatingly. 

His  hand  plucked  nervously  at  the  lappel  of  his  coat 
as  he  spoke — 

* 'Would  you  open  It?" 

She  did  so,  slowly;  with  curiously  reluctant  fingers. 
A  brooch  surveyed  her.  Over  the  years  came  the 
memory  of  another  brooch,  stinging  her  soul.  Tears 
stained  her  cheek.  She  did  not  thank  him;  but  sur- 
veyed the  filigree  emblem  of  his  regard  through  a 
swaying  mist.     A  cataract  sounded  In  her  ears. 

He  surveyed  her;  and  the  world  was  blotted  for 
him.     They  stood  so,  alone  In  Infinite  space. 

"Rose!"  he  said,  advancing  toward  her. 

"Oh,  no!  don't  say  that!"  Tears,  mists,  were 
gone;  and  she  fended  the  coming  doom. 

"Don't  say  what?" 

"What  you're  going  to  say." 

They  stood  facing  each  other,  breathing  greatly. 

"Rose, — I  want — one  day — to  make  you  my  wife." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no !"  Her  eye  had  terror  In  It.  "You 
don't  know  me;  you  don't  know  anything." 

"I  do  know  I  love  you.  Rose."  He  had  her  by  her 
hand. 

She  looked  up  at  him  agitatedly.  His  face  was 
wrought  with  fear  of  losing  her. 


Actions  171 

*Tlease  don't,  Mr.  Denzil.  I'll  ask  father  to  speak 
with  you." 

His  face  expressed  infinite  torture.  He  passed  his 
hand  over  his  face;  and  the  gesture  reached  to  the 
uttermost  of  her  pity.  It  showed  her  how  truly  he 
had  won  her. 

^Tm  so  sorry,  oh,  I  am,  really,  believe  me !  I 
wouldn't  cause  you  any  pain  for  all  the  world."  She 
took  his  hand  as  she  spoke.  "But  you  don't  know 
anything  of  me.  Will  you  let  me  ask  father  to  speak 
to  you?" 

*'Can  I  see  you  after?" 

"If  you  wish  it,  yes !" 

His  gesture  suggested  compliance,  and  she  went. 
He  sat  in  the  great  chair  that  he  usually  occupied,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  The  whole  thing  per- 
plexed him,  and  taunted  him.  He  grappled  with 
something  intangible,  and  he  knew  not  what  It  was. 
His  whole  soul  was  sunk  in  the  lethargy  of  relaxed 
effort. 

He  sat  so  as  Mr.  Bradley  came  into  the  room. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Denzil !"  began  he  somewhat  awkwardly. 

Harry  spoke  out  the  urgent  theme  that  moved  in 
him. 

"Mr.  Bradley,  what  Is  it?" 

"Rose  has  asked  me  to  speak  to  you.  Of  course — 
you  see — perhaps  I  should  have  spoken  before,  but  in 
a  certain  sense,  of  course,  I  couldn't,  you  see!"  This 
was  somewhat  bewildering  to  poor  Harry.  Far  from 
creating  light  in  his  darkness,  it  the  more  Intensified 
his  gloom  by  spinning  intricacy  of  words  before  the 
eye  of  his  perplexity.  Mr.  Bradley,  however,  trod  In 
marshy  soil;  and  was  no  little  uncomfortable  by  reason 
of  his  way. 

"What  is  it?     I  told  her  I  loved  her.     Isn't  that 


172  Broken  Arcs 

sufficient?     I  mean  it,  nothing  else  matters  to  me." 

*'Rose  asked  me  to  speak  to  you.  Poor  child,  she 
is  very  distressed.  Of  course,  It's  none  of  her  fault: 
far  from  it!     But  she's  naturally  unhappy  about  It." 

He  looked  at  Harry,  who  returned  his  glance  with 
a  face  full  of  trouble,  twisted  with  pain  and  emotion. 
He  knew  not  what  to  say,  nor  how  to  phrase  It.  He 
cleared  his  throat,  however,  and  began  again — 

"It's  very  uncomfortable  for  me.  Of  course.  It's 
my  duty."  He  stood  manfully  to  It:  his  tone  ex- 
pressed determination. 

**I  beg  of  you "  began  Harry  In  Intense  suppli- 
cation. But  a  quick  flutter  of  skirts  fell  on  his  ears; 
and,  turning,  he  saw  Rose  standing  in  the  doorway. 
Mr.  Bradley  turned  and  saw  her  too.  She  spoke, 
firmly,  resolutely,  seeking  to  quell  the  emotion  that 
quivered  in  her  voice — 

*Tather,  let  me,  will  you?     I  ought  to." 

"But,  my  child " 

"Please!"  She  looked  into  his  face,  and  there  was 
entreaty  in  her  voice  that  begged  him  not  to  increase 
her  burden. 

He  turned  and  looked  upon  the  two,  and  left. 

"Rose,"  said  Harry,  rejoiced  to  have  her  to  speak 
to,  "I  love  you.  That's  all  that  matters,  if — If  you 
love  me."     He  spoke  the  latter  words  softly. 

She  looked  at  him  tensely,  then  broke  her  word. 

"I'm  not  married." 

He  regarded  her. 

"I've  never  been  married." 

Still  he  regarded  her. 

"Jim's  illegitimate.     Father  took  me  in,  destitute." 

He  saw  her  through  a  mist.  Persistent  vapours 
waved  before  his  eyes,  which  he  as  persistently  waved 
aside.     Let  him  not  be  despised  that  it  meant  much  to 


Jettons  173 

him,  this  that  he  heard.  He  was  no  hero,  he  was  no 
superior  person;  he  was  a  man,  like  most,  fashioned 
in  unthinking  convention,  and  some  of  the  glory  had 
fallen  from  her.  She  did  not  float  through  refulgent 
heavens  now;  she  sat  before  him  on  a  prosaic  chair, 
and  he  needed  adjusting  to  these  new  conditions. 
Slowly  he  saw  that  the  self  that  needed  adjusting  was 
the  same,  nevertheless. 

"I  love  you.  Rose.  That's  all  that  matters.''  With 
the  word  the  situation  became  already  clearer  to  him. 

He  went  firmly  over,  and  pressed  a  kiss  on  her  un- 
resisting lips.  There  was  no  wild  ecstacy  in  this  their 
first  kiss,  but  in  Its  firm  pressure  a  deep  joy  moved 
with  wide  pinions  through  their  souls.  What  vast  im- 
pending troubles  lay  beyond,  he  knew  not,  but  took. this 
first  step,  firmly,  unhesitatingly.  Nor,  in  the  teeth  of 
sentimentalist  opinion,  was  it  the  less  lovely  because 
there  was  in  it  the  firm  prompting  of  duty. 

Nevertheless,  she  was  thrilled.  His  firm  unhesita- 
tion  made  him  seem  to  her  manly  beyond  comparison. 
Her  own  timidity  made  it  seem  to  her  the  nobler,  while 
her  past  experience  came  back  on  her  to  exalt  the  deed 
beyond  its  due.  His  conquest  of  her  was  the  com- 
pleter for  It.  Though  clamorous  voices  had  earlier 
bade  her  erect  no  more  heroes  In  her  heart,  her  trust 
now  went  out  to  him  so  that  she  had  room  for  none 
other  in  her  thoughts  but  him. 

But  the  old  voices  crept  back  on  her.  Liberating 
herself  from  his  binding  arms,  she  stood  free,  regard- 
ing him. 

''Harry!"  she  said. 

''Rose,"  he  burst  out,  "you  love  me.  That's  all  I 
care  about  now." 

"I  ought  to  have  told  you  all  before  I  let  you  kiss 


174  Broken  Arcs 

"No,  no,  our  kiss  ought  to  have  come  first/'  He 
spoke  his  thought.  Even  now  he  feared  himself,  and 
was  glad  that  the  kiss  stood  for  pledge  to  him. 

*'But  I  must  tell  you.  I  can't  go  on  till  you  know 
everything." 

He  drew  her  to  him,  but  she  resisted  him.  Then 
he  took  her  gently  to  a  chair,  and  sat  opposite  her  with 
the  mien  of  one  determined  to  hear  something  that 
mattered  no  whit  either  way.  Yet  the  truth  was  that 
his  heart  sickened  In  him  as  he  framed  his  mind  to 
hear  what  meant  so  much  to  him.  He  forgot  how 
much  It  meant  to  her. 

"Never  mind  about  It  now,  dear,"  said  he.  "I 
know  the  main  fact,  and  It  makes  no  difference  to  me. 
Let  us  leave  the  details  for  another  time." 

But  she  would  not.  Firmly  she  faced  her  own 
mind's  doubt,  braved  It,  determined  to  best  It.  Never- 
theless, It  was  no  plain  ungarnlshed  tale  she  told. 
Rather  by  hints,  half-lights,  and  aloof  suggestions,  she 
spun  the  tender  fabric  before  him.  She  did  not  tell 
him,  she  made  him  see  It.  She  skirted  the  rocks,  and 
made  him  see  their  fashion  by  her  circuit,  their  mon- 
strous aspect  by  her  fear  of  them.  It  all  lived  again 
actively  In  her  Imagination,  and  Imagination  threw  a 
glamour  over  the  faint  words  she  used,  making  them 
to  glow  with  the  colour  of  large  meaning  to  his  mind. 
So  he  learnt  the  tale,  and  learning  It  thus  his  sympathy 
was  touched  the  more.  Her  manner  forbade  caresses 
In  the  telling  of  It,  and  his  soul  yearned  with  Infinite 
tenderness  over  her  as  he  learnt  her  grief.  Pity  came 
to  give  love  a  new  meaning.  He  shone  as  her  cham- 
pion as  he  heard  the  tale,  and  he  desired  nothing  more 
than  that  parental  wrath  should  put  him  to  the  test  of 
true  love. 

"My  poor  Rose,"  he  said,  when  all  the  tale  was  told. 


Actions  I7fl 

"You  know  you  make  me  think  no  sacrifice  too  great 
on  my  part  after  this.  I  pray  I  may  win  you  a  deeper 
meaning  in  life,  particularly  after  your  terrible  experi- 
ence. I  pray  it  may  be  so."  Then,  as  new  winds 
awoke  in  his  mind,  he  cried  out,  *'I  hope  I  may  meet 
that  brute  one  of  these  days.  Fil  thrash  him  within 
an  inch  of  his  life." 


It  was  Christmas  Eve.  There  were  tragic  gleams 
in  that  fact  as  Harry  assisted  In  the  annual  decoration 
of  the  home.  He  had  wished  to  get  quietly  away  to 
think  over  the  new  relation  of  his  life,  and  to  discover 
his  immediate  course  of  action.  But  Cicely  had  cap- 
tured him,  and  his  youthful  brother  had  brought  in  a' 
doughty  comrade  with  a  view  to  hilarity.  He  had, 
perforce,  submitted. 

No  mood  was  his  for  just  such  hilarity.  A  lofty 
joy  stirred  in  him,  truly  enough,  but  it  was  strangely 
tempered  with  perplexity,  and,  to  be  frank,  a  distaste 
that  he  failed  to  account  for.  Serenity  of  thought 
was  impossible;  but  reflection  he  yearned  for.  But 
reflection  was  strewn  to  the  wind  by  Bobby's  raucous 
mirth.  This  last  sent  Cicely  into  high  merriment, 
which  irritated  him,  and  jarred.  Nevertheless,  he 
threw  himself  into  it  with  some  success. 

When  alone,  however,  the  brave  words  he  had 
spoken  to  his  beloved  took  an  ironic  hue  before  him. 
Not  that  he  shrunk;  not  that  he  loved  her  less. 
Recognition  of  circumstances  is  only  incompatible  with 
steadfast  emotion  to  the  sentimentalist.  Sentiment 
may  not  thrive  in  perplexity.  It  is  the  proper  business 
of  emotion  to  combat  it.     And  perplexity  faced  Harry 


176  Broken  Arcs 

Denzil.  Not  only  a  perplexity  without,  which  was  for 
a  later  hour  to  evolve,  but  a  deeper  perplexity  within. 
He  could  not  win  it  to  take  shape.  The  more  he 
struggled  the  more  it  eluded  him.  He  sought  refuge 
in  sleep. 

The  following  morning,  the  initial  festivities  over, 
he  went  to  refresh  his  inspiration.  Rose  met  him  ex- 
pectantly. Her  manner  was  diffident,  and  the  shades 
of  question  were  on  her  face.  He  saw  It,  however, 
and,  quickly  guessing  the  cause,  folded  her  In  reassur- 
ing arms.  She  clung  to  him  to  calm  her  own  queru- 
lous misgiving.  Her  face  looked  up  with  question 
on  it. 

"Dearest,  I  love  you  very  dearly.** 

"Harry,**  she  whispered,  and  a  new  joy  fluttered  in 
her  voice. 

"And  you?** 

"I  tried  to  avoid  you.** 

"Why?** 

She  looked  her  reply. 

"I  knew.**  He  read  her  answer.  "I  shall  try, 
•Rose,  my  dear,  to  recreate  the  world  for  you.  I  hope 
I  may.     I  shall  not  fall  for  lack  of  effort.** 

She  was  not  one  In  whom  speech  failed  if  occasion 
demanded,  but  now  she  but  nestled  closer  to  him,  to 
bid  cease  the  doubts  that  still  moved  slowly  in  her. 
He  framed  the  words  to  reassure  her,  reassuring  him- 
self, too,  thereby,  and  moved  on  from  deeper  to  deeper 
protestations — landmarks  of  faith  to  her,  pledges  of 
memory  to  him. 

Mr.  Bradley  spoke  with  him  later,  and  passed  him 
for  a  noble  soul  In  his  ready  judgment.  He  asked 
what  Dr.  Denzil  had  said. 

"I  haven't  mentioned  It  to  him  yet,**  said  Harry. 
"I  scarcely  know  what  to  do  about  that.     Of  course 


Actions  177 

I  shall  have  to  tell  him;  but  I  think  I'll  let  Christmas 
pass  over  first.'' 

'That's  for  you  to  decide,  my  lad,"  said  Mr.  Brad- 
ley, In  reliance  on  him.  He  was  not  one  to  dictate 
courses  of  action.  "It  seems  to  me  right,  though,  that 
he  should  know  from  you  quickly." 

"Yes,"  said  Harry  doubtfully,  misgiving  raising  Its 
head  at  the  uncomfortable  prospect. 

"He'll  be  annoyed,  I  think.  An  excellent  man,  your 
father.  In  a  professional  capacity;  but  not  one  of  very 
deep  sympathy,  I  think." 

"I  don't  love  him,"  burst  out  Harry. 

"Don't  you?"  Mr.  Bradley's  tone  Implied  that  he 
was  scarcely  so  surprised,  but  thought,  nevertheless, 
rebuke  was  demanded. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  say  that,"  Harry  Inter- 
posed. "Still,  It's  true,"  he  went  on.  "He  has  never 
seemed  to  want  It.  You  can't  very  well  love  a  man 
that  doesn't  really  want  you  to,  can  you?" 

"No,  perhaps  not!"  Doubt  was  still  In  Mr.  Brad- 
ley's voice,  though  understanding  was  In  his  heart. 

They  avoided  further  mention  of  the  doctor,  though 
he  imposed  memory  of  himself  on  them  all. 


XI 

Honestly  Harry  sought  occasion  to  make  his 
father  aware  of  the  new  factor  In  their  relationship. 
But  the  courage  failed  in  him.  He  had  even  made 
his  way  to  the  consulting-room,  where  his  father  spent 
most  of  his  time,  purposing  to  make  an  end  of  the 
matter,  but  at  the  door-mat  courage  had  given  way. 
His  heart's  sledge-hammer  awed  him. 


[178  Broken  Arcs 

But  his  father  came  forward  to  lend  him  ready 
assistance. 

They  were  sitting  smoking  silently  together  after 
dinner,  two  days  after  Boxing  Day.  It  was  their 
habit  to  make  this  show  of  companionship.  The  deep- 
est fellowship  is  sometimes  silence.  But  since  oppo- 
sites  have  most  curious  affinities  of  conduct,  the  deep- 
est discomfort  Is  also  silence.  So  it  was  with  him.  At 
last  Dr.  Denzil  removed  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  with 
a  supreme  gesture,  and  said — 

"I  thought,  Harry,  some  time  ago  I  told  you  it  was 
my  wish  that  you  should  not  visit  the  Bradleys.** 

'Tes,"  said  Harry,  thinking  "Now  it's  coming." 
He  drew  more  intensely  on  his  cigarette. 

"And  yet,  I  understand,  you  have  since  then  been 
-seen  frequently  at  the  house." 

"What  makes  you  think  that,  father?"  He  did  not 
think  of  denying  it ;  but  neither  did  he  propose  surren- 
dering any  point  without  a  contest. 

"Never  mind  what  makes  me  think  it  I  Fm  telling 
you  now  that  I  have  very  good  reason  to  believe  it. 
Is  it  so?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you,  then,  propose  to  defy  me?" 

Harry  was  without  answer.  He  was  mentally  seek- 
ing a  deft  method  of  advancing  the  theme  of  all 
themes  to  him. 

"I'm  waiting  for  an  answer,  Harry."  Dr.  Denzil 
stared  severely  at  his  son,  and  Harry  endeavoured  to 
give  him  glance  for  glance  as  he  made  reply — 

"I  propose  marrying  Rose  Foggetty  as  soon  as  I 
can,  father."  He  spoke  steadily,  and  avoided  appella- 
tions for  Rose. 

Dr.  Denzil  started,  and  his  face  flushed.  For  awhile 
he  said  nothing.     When  he  spoke  It  was  coldly. 


Actions  [175 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Harry!'; 

This  was  a  difficult  interjection  to  get  past.  Un- 
expected, moreover.  Harry  had  looked  for  the  vol- 
cano's crust  to  split,  and  the  heavens  to  have  glowered 
red  fury.  Instead  of  which,  he  was  brushed  aside 
contemptuously.  Some  kind  of  reply  was  Incumbent 
on  him.  The  deftest  and  coolest  would  have  found  It 
difficult  to  frame  a  wise  reply  In  the  circumstances. 
Harry  was  therefore  not  much  to  be  blamed  If,  in  his 
nervousness  and  perplexity,  his  reply  took  a  tone  that 
sounded  priggish. 

"I  love  her,  father,  and  she  loves  me.  Of  course, 
that's  the  great  thing  for  us.  I  have  thought  over  it 
carefully.  I  may  not  be  able  to  afford  to  marry  her 
yet,  or  for  some  time — although  naturally  It  will  be 
an  Incentive  for  me  to  work." 

"I  suppose  this  fooling's  been  going  forward  for  a 
long  time,  and  you've  been  hoodwinking  me." 

Harry  winced. 

"No,  only  a  few  days.  I  intended  to  have  told  you 
earlier,  but  I  hadn't  an  opportunity." 

"You  know  her  history?" 

"I  know  everything.     She  told  me." 

Dr.  Denzil  still  regarded  his  son,  and  there  was  a 
deep,  unquenchable  hostility  In  his  gaze. 

"Of  course  it's  a  piece  of  nonsense  from  first  to 
last.  But  you'll  get  over  it."  He  rose,  and  knocked 
his  ash  into  the  grate.  He  turned  to  go.  "But  re- 
member! my  word  Is,  no  visltlngs  at  the  Bradleys. 
That's  final." 

"But  father! "  began  Harry. 

Dr.  Denzil  turned  at  the  door. 

"I  don't  want  any  bandyings  of  words  about  your 
silly  infatuations.  If  I  hear  any  more  of  your  visits 
to  the  Bradleys,  or  learn  that  you  have  been  seeing 


[l8o  Broken  'Arcs 

this — girl,  there'll  be  a  very  serious  business  between 
us.     Understand  that !" 

''Father,  I'm  pledged  in  honour,  and  more "  so 

Harry  began,  but  his  father  was  gone. 

This  was  rather  a  different  outcome  to  what  Harry 
had  expected.  He  had  looked  for  a  contest,  and  a 
contest  Implies  equals.  Instead  of  which  he  was  sim- 
ply brushed  aside,  which  put  him  on  a  plane  ignominl- 
ously  below  his  opponent.  He  had  desired  a  contest, 
too,  for  other  and  more  potent  reasons.  For  he  de- 
sired firm  earth  to  tread  on.  He  wished  to  know  how 
the  future  fared  for  him.  He  knew  vaguely  that  his 
plight  with  Rose  meant  disruption  with  his  father,  and 
therefore  violation  of  all  plans  regarding  a  forensic 
career.  But  more  than  this  he  had  not  yet  faced. 
What  other  he  should  do  than  read  for  the  Bar,  he 
knew  not.  His  way  of  life  had  cut  him  aloof  from 
those  avenues  where  keen  discussion  of  modes  of  exist- 
ence went  forward.  And  he  had  thought  that  this 
darkness  in  his  mind  would  have  been  Illuminated  by 
the  Inevitable  conflict  with  his  father,  as  though  from 
the  shock  of  two  opponents  In  their  orbits  a  sudden 
and  new  luminary  would  have  flashed  forth.  If  only  a 
variable  or  temporary  luminary,  over  the  deeps  of 
gloom,  raying  aloft  by  way  of  guide  and  gleam  to  him. 
Instead  of  which  the  present  perplexity  transcended 
his  earlier  gloom. 

He  sat  for  a  long  while  thinking  the  position  over. 
(The  only  thing  that  remained  to  him  to  do  was,  obvi- 
ously, to  produce  a  cataclysm.  The  present  Indecision 
was  Intolerable. 

He  went  out  and  strode  through  the  mirk  and  gloom 
of  a  misty  night,  to  give  ease  to  his  troublous  mind. 
He  knew  his  father  had  heard  him  go,  for  the  dis- 
pensary lay  near  the  front  door;  he  hoped  that  person 


'Actions  i8i 

would  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  he  had  issued  forth 
on  a  visit  to  the  Bradleys. 

Great  is  the  value  of  exercise !  It  clears  the  blood 
and  Invigorates  the  mind.  With  its  healthful  showers 
through  the  brain  it  clears  phantasms  and  chases  forth 
the  chimera  of  anxiety.  It  does  not  solve  perplexity; 
it  dismisses  it.  It  cannot  unriddle  riddles,  but  it  ban- 
ishes them.  Thereby  the  mind  recovers  elasticity,  and 
Hope  is  called  down  to  aid  in  the  conflict. 

So  it  was  with  Harry.  He  strode  briskly  on  and 
on,  till  the  very  theme  of  his  perplexity  was  swept  mag- 
nificently out  of  his  thought.  The  body  called  in  the 
mind  to  participate  in  the  supreme  rhythm  of  its  joy. 
And  the  mind  called  back  gladly.  Let  that  man  be 
eyed  askance  that  mingles  the  praise  of  swift  walking 
with  the  praise  of  perplexed  thought.  Let  him  be 
known  for  pot-boiling  journalist,  in  fearful  need  of 
material,  or  for  posturing  humbug  that  knows  neither 
one  nor  other  of  the  things  he  praises.  As  Harry's 
speed  increased  so  did  his  joy  of  motion  wing  higher 
flights.  And  as  joy  mounted  in  his  brain  so  difficulty 
and  gloom  vanished.  It  was  for  a  test  of  his  love  that 
Rose  shone  before  his  eye  as  rare  and  healthful,  pure 
and  joyous,  all  the  time,  only  the  perplexities  sur- 
rounding her  falling  aside  like  corrupted  and  moth- 
eaten  cloths,  leaving  her  exhaling  a  radiance  of  delight 
before  him.  No  slight  test  this!  It  said  she  had 
touched  emotion  in  him,  the  healthiest,  wisest  and 
noblest  of  all  human  things,  to  which  reason  is  but  a 
pale  spectre.  It  showed,  too,  that  she  had  not  spoken 
to  mere  sentiment,  which  is  the  goddess  emotion  bound 
or  afraid  of  herself. 

It  was  so  when  he  returned.  His  father  and  all 
were  forgotten.  But  she  was  a  sweet  inspiration  in 
his  thought.     He  leapt  up  the  stairs  in  healthy  bounds 


l82  Broken  Arcs 

and  made  straightway  for  his  room.  There  the  brows- 
ing spirit  seized  him,  and  he  turned  over  one  or  two 
of  his  books  in  happy  inconsequence,  when  a  knock 
fell  on  his  door.  He  hailed  his  visitor  regardlessly, 
and  Cicely  entered. 

She  Inquired  as  to  the  book  he  handled,  referred  to 
the  jollities  of  the  festive  season  just  concluded,  spoke 
of  his  walk,  and  then  seemed  to  expatiate  with  some 
glowing  enthusiasm  as  to  his  forensic  career.  She  made 
mention  of  the  intense  satisfaction  it  would  give  her 
to  know  him  as  Prime  Minister  of  the  realm.  It  never 
occurred  to  her  that  had  he  aspired  to  this  doubtful 
honour  he  might  have  aspired  for  reasons  other  than 
the  lustre  he  would  thereby  shed  on  her.  She  even 
made  touching  reference  to  his  charms  as  a  young  and 
desirable  specimen  of  male  humanity. 

In  all  this  an  ulterior  object  was  only  too  patent  to 
him,  and  he  determined  to  aid  it  by  leaving  her  to  do 
all  the  conversation.  The  freezing  process  succeeded. 
She  sat  on  his  bed,  and,  handling  the  brass  knob  that 
adorned  the  foot  pedestal,  regarded  herself  therein. 
Then  she  spoke — 

"IVe  been  talking  to  father.'* 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  you  had."  There  was  health- 
ful humour  in  his  voice. 

"Of  course,  youVe  not  in  earnest.  I  told  him  that. 
As  I  said  to  him,  probably  he  annoyed  you  and  you 
just  went  on  to  say  things  you  didn't  mean." 

He  handled  the  leaves  of  his  book  slowly  as  he  re- 
plied to  her. 

*'0n  the  contrary,  Fm  very  much  in  earnest.  It 
seems  to  me  now  it's  the  first  time  in  my  life  I've  been 
in  earnest.  It  may  not  be  the  last,  but  I  don't  mean 
to  let  this  opportunity  go  in  the  hope  of  another  turn- 
ing up." 


Actions  183 

"Father's  frightfully  upset  about  it.'*  Cicely  re- 
garded him  In  a  manner  that  spoke  as  though  she  did 
not  desire  to  Interfere;  and  this  touched  him  more  than 
anything  else. 

*'Is  he?  ril  give  him  his  due  and  say  he  didn't 
seem  much  upset  when  I  spoke  to  him  earlier." 

"You  know  father's  very  strange  sometimes.  He 
doesn't  like  being  upset.  It's  only  his  way.  He 
really  Is  very  upset;  I've  never  known  him  so  dis- 
tressed." 

"I  must  say  I  agree  with  you  with  regard  to  the 
strangeness.  And  so  he  commissioned  you  to  talk  to 
me." 

"Oh,  no !  not  that !  He  was  talking  to  me  about  it, 
and  said  that  I  might  have  a  little  influence  over  you, 
as  he'd  never  appeared  to  have  any.     That's  all." 

"I  wished  to  discuss  it  thoroughly  with  him,  but  he 
wouldn't  let  me.  He  just  cleared  out.  I  rather  im- 
agine he  thinks  being  a  father  is  the  next  thing  to  god- 
head." 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  awhile.  She 
was  less  concerned  with  defending  their  paternal  rela- 
tive than  with  obviating  the  possibility  of  any  disturb- 
ance that  might  militate  adversely  against  her  subse- 
quent joy  of  life.     So  she  let  the  attack  pass. 

"Well,  I  can  understand  him  In  one  way,  you  know. 
The  whole  thing's  so  absolutely  stupid." 

"I  beg  your  pardon."  There  was  a  slight  humour 
in  his  tone,  for  he  heard  in  this  the  echo  of  another 
voice  speaking  down  the  wind. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  know,  old  boy,  you're  very  chivalrous 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  But  It's  so  silly.  Who  is 
she,  for  one  thing?  If  she  were  that  man  Bradley's 
daughter  It  might  help  things — though,  goodness 
knows,  it  would  be  bad  enough,  even  then.     But  she's 


^i84  'Broken  Arcs 

not.  We  don't  know  who  she  is.  Father  hints 
things;  but  doesn't  say.     Harry,  she's  a  nobody." 

She  spoke  this  last  as  the  concluding  climax  In  a 
maze  of  perplexity.  It  came  as  a  relief  to  Harry  that 
his  father  had  had  sufficient  of  decency  to  forbear  pub- 
lishing Rose's  misfortune. 

"That's  a  strange  way  to  speak  of  your  prospective 
sister-in-law,  it  seems  to  me.     It's  scarcely  delicate." 

The  mention  of  Rose  in  this  near  relation  startled 
Cicely.  It  sobered  her,  too.  She  was  silent  for  a  long 
time.  When  at  last  she  spoke  it  was  with  consider- 
able awe. 

**But  whatever  are  you  going  to  do?" 

''I've  pledged  my  troth,  I've  given  my  love;  that's 
the  beginning  and  end  of  all  things,  even  if  It  means 
my  clearing  out  of  here."  Harry  spoke  coldly,  de- 
cisively. 

"Clearing  out  of  here?"  Cicely  spoke  with  horror 
and  amazement.  "But,  my  dear  boy,  whatever  would 
you  do?" 

"That's  a  thing  I  haven't  even  thought  of  yet.  Suf- 
ficient unto  the  day  is  the  trouble  thereof.  It's  as 
much  as  we  can  do  usually  to  get  one  thing  settled  at  a 
time.  I'm  glad  to  say  my  first  is  clear  in  my  mind: 
the  rest  must  follow  in  due  course." 

Cicely  had  never  seen  her  brother  so  decisive  as  this. 
It  Irritated  and  annoyed  her  self-will. 

"I  didn't  think  you  were  a  fool,  Harry.  Really,  I 
thought  better  things  of  you."  She  rose  from  the  bed, 
and  made  a  gesture  of  Impatience,  as  she  spoke. 

"It's  not  the  least  portion  of  my  lament  to  have  lost 
your  esteem,  I  must  say."  Mockery  rippled  in  his 
tone.  "It's  part  of  my  frightful  egotism,  I  know,  but 
I'd  rather  lose  even  your  esteem  than  my  own  self- 
esteem." 


Actions  185. 

"Then  I  suppose  youVe  quite  made  up  your  mind," 
said  Cicely,  in  high  delivery  of  scorn. 

"Quite!  I  shall,  of  course,  visit  there  in  the  ordi- 
nary course.  And  I  shall  sponge  on  my  father  as  long 
as  he  will  let  me."  The  tactician  in  Harry  was  play- 
ing for  an  ejection  as  a  considerable  strengthening  of 
the  prejudices  in  his  favour.  "You  can  tell  him  that," 
he  added. 

"Good-night  I"     Her  kiss  was  Icy. 

"Good-night."     He  added  raillery  to  it. 


XII 

The  following  morning  at  breakfast  it  was  obvious 
to  Harry  that  his  previous  night's  conversation  had 
already  been  recounted  to  his  father.  How  he  knew 
it  he  could  not  say;  but  it  was  to  him  set  deep  In  cer- 
tainty. He  himself  took  the  air  of  a  man  injured;  but 
his  father  in  air  and  speech  seemed  to  have  no  recol- 
lection of  any  disturbance  of  the  family  peace,  Cicely 
was  unduly  silent,  but  Bobby  made  up  for  it  by  con- 
siderable fervour  of  joy. 

He  remained  in  all  the  morning,  reading,  not  dry- 
as-dust  law-books,  but  a  certain  author  whose  style, 
like  the  swaying  of  lawless  seas,  and  whose  passion  for 
diatribe,  had  for  some  time  repelled  him,  but  whom 
he  had  now  come  to  read  with  something  nearer  per- 
sonal affection  that  most  authors  stirred  in  him:  whose 
style  had  come  to  wear  to  him  the  very  shape  of  a 
rugged  but  manly  and  lovable  soul,  and  whose  very 
diatribe  was  to  him  the  tragedy  of  a  great  heart  Illic- 
itly kept  out  of  his  own  for  so  long  a  time  by  purse- 
proud  inferior  minds.  To  the  Centre  of  Indifference 
he  turned,  and  even  forgot  that  his  main  reason  for 


1 86  Broken  Arcs 

staying  in  was  that  his  father  should  seek  an  occasion 
to  come  to  issue  with  him. 

But  he  did  not  do  so.  And  lunch,  too,  passed, 
even  as  breakfast  had  done,  seemingly  with  no  more  of 
constraint  than  the  household  usually  knew. 

Then  he  set  out  for  Rose.  There  was  something  of 
coolness  and  deliberation  in  him  as  he  went.  Passion 
had  receded  from  its  full  and  moving  waters.  He 
stood  on  less  romantic  heights,  but  he  stood  not  less 
surely  to  his  love. 

Rose  met  him,  as  usual,  eagerly,  and  with  large 
strength  of  emotion.  The  news  he  bore  her  filled  her, 
however,  with  perturbation.  For  she  feared  Dr.  Den- 
zil.  He  had  not  only  slighted  her,  scorned  her,  ne- 
glected her;  these  things  aroused  only  opposition  in  her 
mind,  but  his  manner  was  that  of  one  who  quailed  not 
to  do  the  brutal  should  occasion  require  it.  She  knew, 
therefore,  that  he  would  bring  his  whole  artillery  to 
bear  on  Harry. 

A  strange  thing  awoke  In  her.  Her  past  trouble 
had  brought  its  deep  crises  in  her  mind,  and  in  win- 
ning her  way  through  she  had  achieved  a  certain  steel- 
like vigour  of  mind,  that  moved  In  all  her  intensity  of 
emotion,  and  was  next  neighbour  to  Independence. 
Before  she  had  met  Harry  she  had  been  determined  to 
stand  free  of  all  henceforward :  to  own  fealty  to  none, 
to  bow  the  knee  to  none.  Though  she  could  not  see 
this,  it  was  partly  this  that  caused  her  to  endeavour 
to  frustrate  Harry's  wooing,  that  made  her  flee  him. 
She  had  purposed  filling  her  lot  In  life  as  an  independ- 
ent unit.  She  had  won  her  way  through  calamity  with 
vigour,  and  the  vigour  that  had  been  upcalled,  with 
which  to  shatter  the  manacles  that  bound  her  soul, 
remained  with  her.  It  gave  to  her  original  and  na- 
tive power  and  purity  of  emotion  a  certain  strength, 


Actions  187 

that  was  lovely  In  so  far  as  it  was  fearless  and  self- 
reliant,  but  that  was  unlovely  In  so  far  as  It  was  exact- 
ing and  Impatient. 

Strength  Is  often  Impatient,  but  It  Is  next  neighbour 
to  weakness  when  It  Is  so. 

All  this  now  rose  up  In  her,  and  Harry,  not  under- 
standing It  in  her,  was  perplexed.  He,  It  seemed,  was 
being  called  to  the  sacrifice  of  all.  In  responding  to 
the  call  he  would  thus  raise  himself  above  her,  and  this 
cut  at  their  equality.  For  the  first  time  this  came 
severely  to  the  front  in  her.  Had  he  stumbled  at  the 
call,  the  lament  of  perpetual  faithlessness  would  have 
been  awakened  in  her.  In  standing  firmly  to  it,  he  gave 
her  second  rank.  Her  soul  rebelled :  for  years  she  had 
nurtured  herself  on  the  thought  that  never  would  she 
brook  inequality.  She  had  relied  on  another  once; 
given  up  guidance  once :  never  again  I 

Did  he  desire  his  freedom?  Fearfully  she  asked  it. 
She  did  not  wish  to  put  a  heavy  burden  on  him.  Why 
should  he  be  called  to  sacrifice  on  her  account?  He 
mocked  at  the  word  sacrifice.  The  sacrifice  was  hers 
in  being  called  to  take  the  burden  of  such  as  he. 

"Harry,  if  you  would  wish  for  liberty,  say  so, 
dearie !"  she  said  eventually,  still  clinging  to  her  point 
even  when  it  drove  daggers  in  her  heart. 

"Rose !"  Surprise  was  In  his  voice.  But  he  turned 
it  to  playful  mockery.  "Would  it  grieve  you  to  be 
rid  of  me?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  Harry!"     Her  lips  sought  his. 

"I  really  believe  that's  what  you  mean,"  he  said, 
taunting  her. 

Her  eyes  grew  moist  as  she  contemplated  this  pos- 
sibility. 

"Harry,  I  think  it  would  break  my  heart."  Her 
lips  spoke  the  true  business  of  her  heart  then. 


1 88  Broken  Arcs 

*Then  why  all  this  talk  of  sacrifice?     There's  no 
sacrifice  in  love." 

"I  only  wanted  to  be  fair  to  you." 
*Tair?     You  silly  girl!" 
And  so  they  waved  it  away. 


XIII 

Dr.  Denzil  was  more  anxious  than  he  appeared  to 
be.  Perplexity  was  alive  in  him.  The  news  commu- 
nicated by  the  faithful  Cicely,  however,  had  made  him 
aware  that  a  new  access  of  determination  had  woken 
in  his  son,  and  this  spoke  to  the  tactician  in  him.  Sev- 
eral plans  offered  themselves  to  him.  A  brow-down, 
horns-forward  attack  on  his  son  he  dismissed  as  soon 
as  it  presented  itself  to  him:  firstly,  as  being  undigni- 
fied; secondly,  as  being  unwise.  Had  Harry  seemed 
distressed  on  Cicely's  visit,  he  would  have  attempted 
it.  A  cavalry  charge  on  a  disordered  field  is  certain 
victory;  but  a  cavalry  charge  on  a  cool  phalanx  is  to 
court  disaster. 

No,  that  was  to  be  dismissed.  At  another  moment 
it  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be  well  to  bring  an  at- 
tack to  bear  upon  Mr.  Bradley.  But  this  would  mean 
recognition  of  the  state  of  affairs,  a  piece  of  tactics  as 
maladroit  as  undignified.  Therefore  this,  too,  went 
by  the  board. 

Inaction  is  ofttimes  the  best  action.  So,  Dr.  Denzil 
neither  said  nor  did  anything.  He  began  to  trust  to 
a  cooling  ardour  in  his  son.  Assuredly  this  cooling 
ardour  would  come,  thought  he.  He  judged  his  son 
to  be  ambitious  (he,  too,  in  a  certain  sense,  was  ambi- 
tious in  his  son),  and  surely  Harry  would  come  to  see 
that  to  persist  in  so  foolish  an  infatuation  was  to  de- 


/Actions  189 

vastate  all  the  dreams  of  ambition!  Moreover,  he 
knew  his  son  to  be  refined  of  emotion,  and  surely  the 
thought  of  taking  a  sullied  woman  to  wife  would 
eventually  revolt  him!  But,  more  than  all,  he  relied 
on  weakness  in  his  son,  and  therein  his  skill  as  tactician 
fell  all  awry. 

He  knew  that  Harry  still  called  at  Mr.  Bradley's 
house,  he  had  even  expected  it.  And  therefore  he 
was  not  surprised  when  he  learnt  from  his  source  of 
information  that  the  visits  had  become  a  matter  of 
daily  concern. 

So  he  sat  in  the  dusk  of  a  January  afternoon  think- 
ing. He  was  perplexed,  for  no  abatement  seemed  to 
show  itself  in  Harry's  ardour.  As  he  sat,  he  heard 
the  front  door  close,  and  Harry  hanging  up  his  coat 
in  the  hall.  He  judged  he  had  just  come  from  seeing 
Rose.     He  hailed  him. 

The  door  of  his  room  opened,  and  Harry  appeared 
in  the  doorway  with  the  query — 

"Did  you  call  me,  father?"  His  manner  was  stiff, 
pugnacious  almost. 

"Yes,  come  in,  Harry!"  The  doctor's  tone  was 
genial  and  expansive. 

Harry  came  in,  and,  as  his  way  was,  went  immedi- 
ately over  to  the  fireside,  where  he  stood,  awkwardly, 
toying  with  a  new  and  resplendent  pipe  that  the  doctor 
had  just  sported  himself,  and  which  lay  in  its  open 
case  on  the  mantelpiece.  Harry  was  awkward,  the 
more  so  as  his  father  said  nothing.  Dr.  Denzil  had  a 
strange  way  of  letting  his  eyes  rove  about  his  room  In 
thoughtless  vacancy.  This  he  did  now,  and  the  silence 
became  irksome.     At  length  he  spoke — 

"Rather  a  nice  pipe  that,  isn't  it,  Harry?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Harry,  somewhat  startled.  He 
had  not  expected  this.     The  tone,  too,  was  genial.     It 


190  Broken  Arcs 

was  perplexing.  He  began  to  be  wary  for  gins  and 
snares. 

"It's  a  new  method  of  treating  meerschaum.  It's 
a  bit  heavy  In  the  mouth,  but  It's  wonderful  cool  In  the 
smoking.  You  can  drop  them,  they  say,  and  they  don't 
break.  I  haven't  tried,  because  they're  rather  expen- 
sive. I'd  rather  let  somebody  else  try.  Fine  piece  of 
amber.  Isn't  it?" 

"Very  fine !"  said  Harry,  examining  a  flawless  curve 
of  clear  amber.  It  was  an  Ideal  shape  for  a  pipe ;  and 
Harry  handled  It  with  some  considerable  admiration. 
iWIth  tenderness,  almost. 

"Take  It,  and  try  it,"  said  his  father,  watching  him 
sidelong.  "If  you  like  it,  and  recommend  it,  I'll  get 
another  for  myself." 

The  pipe  suddenly  became  a  deadly  thing  in  Harry's 
hand,  and  he  regarded  it  with  something  of  revulsion. 
It  seemed  like  an  embassy  from  an  enemy's  camp, 
tricking  him  to  treachery.  He  laid  it  down  on  the 
mantelpiece  as  though  its  touch  were  clammy. 

"Thanks!"  he  said  shortly,  after  a  period  of  silence. 
He  said  it  almost  mechanically. 

"And  what  about  your  arrangements  for  going  up 
to  town  ?  We  ought  to  get  those  done  soon  now,  don*t 
you  think?" 

Harry  was  silent  again  for  a  time.  He  did  not 
know  how  to  fend  this  sudden  amiability.  Whether 
he  should  assume  that  his  father  was  acting  on  the 
recognized  basis  of  his  avowed  engagement  with  Rose, 
or  whether  he  should  put  this  forward  as  a  prior  mat- 
ter for  contention,  he  did  not  know.  This  was  a  turn 
in  affairs  he  had  not  contemplated. 

"I  suppose  I  ought,"  he  said,  still  endeavouring  to 
solve  his  mental  difficulty. 

"Would  you  prefer  to  stay  in  an  hotel  at  first,  while 


Actions  191 

you're  looking  about  for  suitable  rooms,  and  will  you 
go  up  to  London  this  week,  or  early  next,  for  a  few 
days,  to  search  them  out?'* 

"I  haven't  thought  about  it  yet."  Harry  was  still 
fighting  with  his  difficulty,  and  his  replies  were  vague, 
tentative. 

* 'Don't  you  think  you  had  better  go  Into  it  at  once, 
then?" 

"Father!"  broke  out  Harry,  turning  on  his  parent. 

"Well?"  Dr.  Denzll's  tone  was  bland,  Imperturbed, 
interrogative. 

"Isn't  there  an  earlier  matter  than  that?" 

"Is  there?     You  know  best." 

"What  about  my  engagement  with  Rose?"  Harry's 
manner  was  that  of  the  conscious  pugilist,  in  wait  for 
his  opponent. 

"Oh,  I've  forgotten  all  about  that  silly  affair."  Dr. 
DenzU's  manner  was  still  Imperturbed.  It  swept  the 
whole  matter  aside  with  calm  benignity. 

Harry  fingered  the  pipe  nervously,  took  it  in  both 
hands,  dropped  it  back  in  the  case,  toyed  with  some 
papers  agitatedly. 

"I  haven't,"  he  said. 

Dr.  Denzil  in  turn  was  silent  for  awhile,  then  said — 

"With  your  young  high-flown  Ideas  you  don't  see 
how  preposterous  the  whole  thing  Is.  It's  for  that 
reason  I  make  allowances  for  your  folly,  although  it 
places  me  In  a  very  awkward  position.  It  would  cover 
you  with  contumely." 

"Contumely?"  Harry  shouted.    "Why  contumely?" 

"Well,  unfortunately  our  marriage  laws  make  a 
woman  declare  herself  as  widow  or  spinster,  the  dec- 
laration having  the  force  of  an  affidavit." 

Harry  started.  The  fact  was  disagreeable,  and  had 
not  been  thought  of  by  him. 


192  Broken  Arcs 

"YouVe  taxing  her  with  her  misfortune/'  he  said 
doggedly. 

*'My  dear  boy,  misfortunes  are  crimes  now-a-days." 

Harry  took  his  father's  cynic  reference.  He  did 
not  think  his  reading  had  extended  so  far.  The  re- 
mark appealed,  however,  to  his  thought,  and  in  en- 
deavouring to  reply  to  it  in  the  field  of  reason  he  re- 
covered considerably  from  his  emotional  perturbation. 
It  steadied  him,  it  braced  him  with  the  joy  of  thought- 
ful conflict. 

"Before  a  proposition  like  that  could  be  accepted 
one  would  have  to  define  terms,  wouldn't  one?  For 
instance,  what  are  misfortunes?  Or  rather,  what  are 
not  misfortunes?"  He  thought  of  an  unsympathetic 
father,  a  wilful  son,  an  overbearing  disposition,  as  pos- 
sible misfortunes,  and  an  ironic  smile  came  into  his 
face  as  he  saw  the  wide  world  embraced  in  the  arms  of 
criminality. 

Dr.  Denzil  looked  askance  at  his  son,  who  was  gaz- 
ing ^t  the  glowing  coals  as  he  said  this.  He  flushed 
angrily,  and  his  eyes  scowled  at  his  son.  But  he  was 
calm  again  before  he  spoke. 

"Yes,  well,  I  won't  go  into  discussions.  I  only  offer 
you  the  advice  of  one  considerably  older  than  your- 
self." He  paused  to  see  if  Harry  would  speak,  then 
went  on :  "It  might  make  me  angry  to  see  the  way  you 
assume  a  greater  knowledge  than  myself." 

"I  don't  do  that,  father,"  protested  Harry  quietly. 

"I  don't  see  what  else  you  do,  overriding  my  dis- 
tinct wishes  as  you  do.  Of  course,  you  know  very  well 
that  my  wishes  are  based  only  on  my  desire  for  your 
welfare."  Harry  did  not  know  this,  but  did  not  dis- 
pute it.  "But  you  reject  my  counsel,"  went  on  Dr. 
Denzil,  after  a  pause,  "you  overturn  my  wishes.  And 
what  for?     For  a  bubble,  a  trifle.     If  you  act  sen- 


Jettons  193 

sibly,  as  I  think  you  will  do,  In  a  few  years*  time  all 
this  will  seem  foolish  to  you.  It  Is,  I  suppose,  the 
privilege  of  youth  to  be  Irresponsible,  but  It  Is  my  duty 
as  your  father  to  point  out  to  you  what  the  path  of 
wisdom  is."  Harry  still  gazed  at  the  crackling  fire, 
and  the  voice  went  on.  "At  best,  whatever  girl  you 
marry  will  bring  you  equal  chance  of  happiness,  and 
an  erotic  Infatuation  has  got  nothing  to  do  with  it.  At 
worst,  they'll  bring  you  equal  misery.  In  fact,  the 
less  of  erotic  mania  you  have  the  better,  for  if  a  crash 
comes  you  can  hold  yourselves  the  freer,  while  you  do 
much  to  avert  a  catastrophe  by  avoiding  too  enforced 
an  intimacy." 

This  dead  logic  of  wisdom  crushed  and  benumbed 
Harry.  It  lay  like  bonds  of  Ice  over  his  soul.  It  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  replied — 

^'Suppose  that  this  is  so,  father,  this  does  not  militate 
against  any  one  woman  more  than  another,  does  It?" 

*'True,  a  man  does  better  to  avoid  marriage.  It's 
always  a  disillusion;  the  fine  colours  of  romance  never 
outlast  the  first  days.  But  if  a  man  does  determine  to 
marry,  then  my  advice  to  him  Is  to  choose  his  partner 
so  that  after  the  disillusionment  their  relations  can  be 
equal  and  equable.  What  equal  relations  have  you, 
for  Instance,  with  this  girl?  There  Is  always  the  ques- 
tion of  her  unfortunate  past  before  your  eyes,  doubly 
before  your  eyes  in  the  person  of  her  Imbecile  son." 

"He's  not  an  imbecile,"  broke  out  Harry  hotly. 

"Well,  perhaps  not,  strictly  speaking,  but  strange 
enough  to  be  called  so  in  the  rough.  But  apart  from 
that,  your  ways  are  not  equal,  your  habits  of  life  are 
not  equal — she's  only  some  farmer's  daughter,  or 
something  of  that  kind — nor  are  you  the  same  in  any 
way.  After  your  disillusionment,  she'll  take  every 
upward  aspiration  of  yours  as  a  slight  upon  her.     The 


194  Broken  Arcs 

circles  you'll  want  to  move  in  will  only  strike  uncom- 
fortably on  her,  and  that  again  will  be  a  fresh  cause 
of  disturbance." 

This  tide  of  dead,  because  formulated,  wisdom  was 
crushing  to  Harry.     He  broke  out  in  expostulation — • 

''Father,  you're  wanting  to  live  your  life  again  in 
me.  All  this  is  your  experience  of  life;  it  may  not  be 
mine.  And  even  if  it  is  going  to  be  mine,  I  want  to 
prove  it  to  be  so  for  myself.  I  want  to  attend  to  ad- 
vice, of  course;  but  taking  advice  is,  after  all,  only 
living  life  on  hearsay.  I  want  to  live  out  my  own  ex- 
perience." 

"That's  very  fine  as  a  high-flown  sentiment.  But 
high-flown  sentiments  belong  to  a  mythical  age,  Harry. 
You  think  you'r~  couching  your  lance  at  knights,  but 
you'll  find  they're  only  windmills.  This  is  the  age  of 
reason,  cold  reason,  callous  reason,  if  you  will;  but 
still,  reason." 

Futility  is  the  knell  of  youth,  and  so  of  hope.  Its 
clammy  hands  bind  desire,  and  devastate  endeavour; 
and  reason  is  kin  to  futility.  Harry  had  enough  of 
strength  to  fall  back  on  instinct. 

''Reason  can  disprove  truth,  father,  for  reason  can 
prove  or  disprove  anything.  It  has  no  business  with 
life,  nor  with  anything  quick,  vital  or  permanent.  You 
can  disprove  me  now  and  I  shall  still  have  faith  in  life. 
If  my  own  experience  disproves  me  I  hope  I  shall  still 
have  faith  in  it."  His  outburst  was  spoken  passion- 
ately, and  his  father  avoided  his  glance. 

"Well,  you  think  it  over,"  said  Dr.  Denzil  after  a 
pause  sufficiently  lengthy  to  permit  the  glow  of  Harry's 
conviction  to  fade  away.  "On  the  one  hand  you've 
got  all  the  glow  of  romance — as  much  of  it  as  you 
want — and  nothing  else,  for,  of  course,  you  yourself 
would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  expect  me  to  support  you 


Actions  195! 

in  a  selfish  action  that  brings  discomfort  and  shame  on 
Cicely  and  Bob  and  myself.  On  the  other  hand,  youVe 
got  before  you  a  useful  career — which  Is  sufficient  ro- 
mance for  most  people,  and  more  permanent  at  that — 
youVe  got  comfort,  surety  of  Income,  and  a  purpose 
in  life;  with  just  a  little  temporary  discomfort,  a  mat- 
ter of  a  week  or  so." 

So  the  blow  had  fallen!  It  was  expected,  but 
bruised  him  not  the  less  for  that.     He  cried  out — 

"But,  father,  I  love  her,  and  she  loves  me!" 

"Do  you?  Well,  now  Is  your  opportunity  to  prove 
it.  If  she  loves  you  she  will  not  wish  you,  she  will 
refuse  to  let  you,  sacrifice  yourself,  your  career  and 
your  family  for  a  temporary  whim  on  her  part.  If 
you  love  her,  you  will  not  sacrifice  her  happiness  and 
peace  of  mind  to  your  grossness  of  desire."  Having 
wound  up  this  ancient  sophism  with  so  fell  a  blow,  he 
stole  a  glance  at  his  son  to  see  how  it  had  fallen. 
Harry  winced,  started,  and  drew  his  shoulders  square, 
but  said  nothing.  His  hot  cheeks  gave  Dr.  Denzll  to 
know  that  his  shot  had  gone  home.  So  he  continued 
with  equal  blandness,  but  with  more  softness  of  tone : 
"But  Fm  busy  now.  You  think  It  over,  my  boy.  Don't 
hurry.  Fm  behind  you  to  help  you  all  I  can  If  you 
act  sensibly.  Otherwise,  of  course,  you  must  put  your 
convictions  to  the  test  yourself." 

Harry  went  out  of  the  room  without  a  word,  leav- 
ing the  proffered  pipe  of  peace  behind  him.  Once 
gone.  Dr.  Denzll  muttered  to  himself:  "I  don't  know 
what  the  present  generation's  coming  to.  If  I'd  talked 
like  that  to  my  father  I'd  have  been  thrashed.  But  I 
think  he'll  come  round  now.  He  looked  beaten." 
He  rubbed  his  hands  together,  and  turned  to  his 
book. 

Harry  was  not  at  dinner,  and  nobody  Inquired  where 


196  Broken  Arcs 

he  was.     The  following  morning  Dr.  DenzU  found  a 
note  on  his  desk  that  read  thus — 

"My  Dear  Father, 

''I  have  made  my  decision,  or  rather,  I  am  de- 
termined to  adhere  to  my  Initial  decision,  whatever  it 
may  cost  me.  It  seems  strange  to  me  that  you,  my 
father,  should  ask  of  me  that  I  void  my  own  word,  my 
honour;  but  as  you  deride  romantic  considerations  it 
will  perhaps  not  seem  strange  to  you.  What  I  shall 
finally  decide  to  do  I  cannot  say.  At  the  moment,  I 
am  sharing  Mr.  Bradley's  courteous  hospitality,  with 
some  few  of  my  books  and  clothes.  I  shall  value  the 
remainder,  if  you  would  not  mind  my  sending  for 
them.  In  this  I  recognize  I  can  only  appeal  to  your 
charity,  as  they  were,  of  course,  purchased  with  your 
money.  I  feel  I  am  doing  the  only  right  thing:  In  so 
far  as  this  brings  you  disturbance  I  can  only  be  sorry. 
I  thank  you  for  what  you  have  done  in  the  past. 

"With  reference  to  our  conversation  of  this  after- 
noon, in  spite  of  my  inexperience  I  cannot  help  but  feel 
that  life  is  too  large  an  affair  for  any  one  to  dictate  to 
any  other  as  to  Its  conduct. 

"Please  convey  my  love  to  Cicely  and  Bobby.  I 
fear  this  will  upset  you.     I  am  sorry. 

"Your  affectionate  son, 

"Harry." 


XIV 

Dr.  Denzil  read  this  through  amazedly  at  first, 
then  again  with  gathering  fury.  Crumpling  it  up,  and 
hurling  it  in  the  fire,  he  sprang  out  into  the  hall  with 
a  call  for  Cicely. 


Actions  197 

"All  right,  father,"  coolly  replied  that  young  lady; 
"breakfast  isn't  ready  yet.     It  won't  be  long." 

"Oh,  It's  not  that,"  Irascibly  broke  the  troubled  man. 
"Where's  Harry?" 

"He's  not  down  yet." 

"Yes,  but  where  Is  he?     Has  his  bed  been  slept  In?" 

Cicely  emerged  at  this  with  perturbed  countenance. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  father?  Anything 
wrong?" 

"Good  heavens,  girl,  haven't  I  got  troubles  enough 
without  your  making  them  worse  by  asking  silly  ques- 
tions?    Go  and  see  if  Harry's  bed  has  been  slept  in!" 

Cicely  departed  without  further  parley,  to  leave  him 
pacing  up  and  down  perturbedly,  anxiety  and  wrath 
flying  across  his  face  in  chase  of  one  another.  "Dash 
the  boy,"  he  muttered.  "Well,  as  he  makes  his  bed 
so  he'll  have  to  lie  on  it.  I'll  bar  him  the  house.  I'll 
bar  him  everything.  I'll  make,  him  rue  his  conduct." 
Yet,  though  he  said  this,  he  fended  the  thought  that 
Harry  had  really  gone.  He  drove,  or  sought  to  drive, 
the  idea  from  his  mind.  The  impertinence  of  its  In- 
trusion brought  forth  the  flames  of  his  most  irritable 
anger. 

Nevertheless,  Cicely  came  down  to  confirm  the 
thought  with  the  news  that  Harry's  bed  had  Indeed  not 
been  slept  in,  and  that  his  room  bore  the  tokens  of 
sudden  eviction.     Her  awed  face  chilled  him. 

"Where's  Harry,  father?"  she  asked. 

"Gone  to  the  Bradley's.  Well,  he'll  rue  it.  I'll  have 
no  more  to  do  with  him.     I  wash  my  hands  of  him." 

"Poor  old  Harry!     But  why " 

"Don't  mention  his  name !  I  refuse  to  have  his 
name  mentioned  in  this  house.  Tell  Bob  that,  and 
Mrs.  Robinson." 

It  was  a  poor  company  that  sat  round  at  breakfast 


198  Broken  Arcs 

that  morning,  a  speechless,  awkward  circle.  All  went 
through  the  pretence  of  eating,  but  few  evinced  any 
prowess  In  that  direction.  None,  In  point  of  fact,  save 
Bobby,  who,  for  his  part,  did  not  propose  to  let  a 
brother  more  or  less  interpose  between  him  and  the 
promptings  of  a  healthy  appetite.  The  others  re- 
garded him  as  an  unhealthy  abnormality.  Instead  of 
knowing  him  for  the  wisest  among  them.  Each  was 
longing  for  the  end  of  the  dismal  meal,  in  order  to 
turn  aside  and  think  over  the  turn  of  affairs,  but  they 
all  had  to  await  his  time  as  his  rapacity  worked  its 
way  through  his  usually  portentous  meal. 

Dr.  Denzil  watched  this  last  addition  to  his  family 
with  malignant  eyes,  but  said  no  word,  made  no  sar- 
castic comment.  When  at  last  Bobby  began  to  fold 
up  his  serviette  with  the  air  of  a  man  well  satisfied, 
Dr.  Denzil  rose  from  the  table  with  dignified  energy 
and  left  the  room. 

Presently  when  Cicely  sought  him  out  she  learnt  that 
he  had  gone  out  to  an  urgent  case. 

"But  I  didn't  hear  the  motor,''  said  she  to  the  of- 
fending Tim. 

"No'm,"  replied  that  wee  flunkey;  *'he  said  he 
wouldn't  have  the  motor,  didn't  want  it." 

In  truth,  Dr.  Denzil  had  gathered  himself  together 
and  gone  to  find  his  son  at  the  Bradley's.  He  had 
elected  to  walk,  not  only  that  he  might  cool  his  brain 
thereby,  but  rather  so  as  to  avoid  the  ostentation  and 
publicity  of  the  visit.  This  matter  would  be  sure  to 
cause  no  small  buzz  of  gossip  at  a  later  hour,  and  he 
would  not  accelerate  it;  nor,  indeed,  would  he  give 
its  subsequent  flame  fuel  to  wax  high  upon.  He 
feared  the  pictorial  figures  of  speech  striking  out  the 
dramatic  situation:  he  rushing  up  in  a  motor,  a  fear- 
ful struggle  within,  he  and  the  son,  the  son  fighting  to 


Jettons  199 

resist  being  borne  away  In  the  furious  paternal  arms 
to  the  steaming  car  without,  thus  to  be  hurried  back 
within  the  doctor's  battlements,  with  a  raised  draw- 
bridge to  defy  the  world.  ''Dash  the  boy,"  he  mut- 
tered; "as  It  Is,  he'll  make  me  talked  of  all  over  the 
place.  He'll  ruin  my  practice.  And  all  to  satisfy  a 
temporary  whim  of  his.  He  wants  a  good  flogging, 
that's  what  he  wants." 

In  this  mood  he  arrived  at  Mr.  Bradley's.  With 
customary  dignity  he  asked  of  the  awed  Alice  for  her 
master.  Standing  In  the  sitting-room  he  saw  one  or 
two  books  lying  about,  tokens  of  the  fled  Harry,  and 
for  the  first  time  he  was  genuinely  touched.  When 
Mr.  Bradley  appeared  It  was,  therefore,  with 
some  genuine  dignity  of  emotion  that  he  spoke  to 
him. 

"I  asked  for  you,  Mr.  Bradley,  as  It  was  Incumbent 
on  me  to  do.  But  of  course  you  guess  the  object  of 
my  visit.     I  wish  to  see  my  son." 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  Dr.  DenzU,  he  Is  out."  Mr. 
Bradley  spoke  with  a  resolution  that  sought  to  muffle 
confusion. 

"Out?  Out?"  The  tragedy  of  futility  was  In  Dr. 
Denzll's  voice. 

"I  regret  to  say  he  Is." 

"He  went  out  to  avoid  me,  then?" 

"I  owe  It  to  you.  Dr.  DenzU,  to  say  that  you're 
right.  I  told  him  he  should  see  you,"  he  went  on 
hurriedly  as  the  other  was  about  to  break  In; 
"and  he  has  promised  me  to  do  so.  But  he  wishes  to 
avoid  you  just  for  a  few  days.  He's  considerably  dis- 
tressed." 

"He  didn't  strike  me  so."  Dr.  DenzU  spoke  coldly. 
"But  still,  have  It  sol  Another  matter  Is  that  I'm 
considerably  surprised  at  you,  Bradley,  harbouring  a 


200  Broken  Arcs 

recalcitrant  son  of  mine.  Except  when  my  profes- 
sional duties  bade  me,  I  never  remember  having  inter- 
fered In  your  domestic  economy.'* 

*'Your  son  did  me  the  honour  to  ask  me  for  shelter. 
But  that  raises  a  much  bigger  question." 

"Well?" 

Mr.  Bradley  with  some  diffidence  motioned  his  guest 
to  be  seated,  and  since  he  refused,  stood  himself  oppo- 
site him.  His  manner  was  awkward,  but  firm.  They 
made  a  strange  contrast.  Dr.  Denzil  was  younger, 
more  vigorous,  and  pompous  with  a  dignity  that 
seemed  almost  to  have  become  natural,  so  inevitably 
and  Infallibly  had  it  been  worn  throughout  his  days  on 
all  occasions.  Mr.  Bradley's  hair  and  beard  were 
white,  giving  him  a  benignant  appearance.  His  man- 
ner was  courteous,  with  that  inevitable  dash  of  defer- 
ence clinging  about  him  from  his  old  shopkeeper  days. 
But  a  certain  kindliness  won  him  respect.  Over  all 
which,  he  wore  as  a  robe  a  curious  something  hard  to 
define.  It  marked  him  as  a  man  that  would  succeed 
in  what  he  took  in  hand,  could  win  through  obstruc- 
tion, heeded  not  obloquy  if  a  goal  wooed  him ;  preserv- 
ing him  a  native  Independence  and  fearlessness  of 
thought,  a  pugnacity  almost,  a  heat  like  stray  sparks 
struck  from  a  flint.  It  was  this  that  had  won  him  Into 
the  fray  at  election  times,  when  he  accomplished  an 
unexpected  power  of  diatribe.  It  was  this  that  caused 
Dr.  Denzil  to  respect  him  as  an  opponent  as  he  faced 
him  now. 

"You  must  not  think.  Dr.  Denzil,"  he  said,  "that 
when  I  saw  this  coming  I  wished  it — I  am  speaking  of 
this  mutual  affection.  I  warned  my — er — ward,  shall 
I  say?  against  it.  I  objected  to  your  son,  not  as  a 
man,  but  as  your  son,  as  a  match  for  her." 

"You  objected  to  my  son  as  my  son." 


Actions  201 

"Just  so !  I  admire  you  as  a  man,  Dr.  Denzil,  and 
I  have  unbounded  confidence  in  you  as  a  physician ;  but 
I  scarcely  think  you're  a  lovable  man,  and  I  feared 
this  trait  might  be  dominant  In  your  son." 

Dr.  Denzil  drew  himself  up  with  wounded  majesty. 

"I  am  speaking  frankly,  you  see!" 

Dr.  Denzil  motioned  him  to  proceed. 

"You  see,  I  value  gentleness  In  men.  If  the  monled 
classes  were  only  gentle-men  there  would  be  no  polit- 
ical problems  of  poverty  and  misery.  Unfortunately 
they're  largely  brutes,  which  they  disguise  by  calling 
the  brutality  manliness.     But  that's  another  question." 

Dr.  Denzil  looked  amazedly  at  this  calm  placid  man 
that  so  courteously  gave  vent  to  such  atrocious  senti- 
ments. 

*'I  objected,  too,  to  the  class  distinction.  As  a  Rad- 
ical, Dr.  Denzil,  you  will  quite  see  that  class  distinc- 
tions are  as  valid  from  one  side  as  the  other.  I  ob- 
jected to  my  ward  marrying  a  man  whose  education 
would  give  him  a  wholly  false  idea  as  to  the  real  facts 
of  existence,  and  whose  Instinct  would  spoil  his  chance 
of  ever  learning.  I  have  come  to  think  that  there  is  a 
certain  something  In  Harry  that  will  overcome  this. 
I  hope  there  is,  for  I  should  be  sorry  for  my  Rose  to 
marry  a  man  of  dwarfed  Intelligence." 

"What  has  all  this  preposterous  nonsense  to  do  with 
the  object  of  my  visit?  I  have  come  to  see  my  son." 
There  were  bars  in  Dr.  DenzIPs  voice  that  spoke  of 
anger  pressing  against  them,  like  beasts  eager  for  the 
field. 

"You  challenge  my  attitude.  I  am  defining  it.  May 
I  proceed?" 

"I  don't  see  what  it  has  got  to  do  with  it.  Go  on, 
though!" 

"I  say  I  objected.     I  did  not  press  It  strongly,  for 


202  Broken  Arcs 

I  thought  I  saw  the  same  fight  going  on  In  Rose's 
mind  as  there  was  going  on  in  mine,  for  I  liked  Harry; 
I  have  already  told  you,  before  all  this,  that  I  like 
your  son.  But  when  Rose  gave  herself  to  Harry  I 
said  nothing  further.  Liberty  is  with  me  more  than 
an  empty  form  of  words.  Whatever  she  chooses  to 
do  my  attitude  to  her  remains  the  same.  You  don't 
agree  with  this  freedom?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  to  you  what  I  think." 

"No,  it  does  not.  It  matters  to  Harry.  Still, 
there  It  is !  I  told  him  it  was  his  duty  to  speak  fully 
with  you.  I  saw  my  judgment  of  you  was  not  wrong, 
for  I  could  see  he  was  afraid  of  you,  afraid  to  speak 
to  you.  Anyhow,  to  cut  it  short,  he  came  round  here 
yesterday  and  said  he  had  left  you.  He  said  you  had 
given  him  the  final  choice  of  his  rejecting  Rose  or  your 
rejecting  him.  He  asked  me  for  shelter,  and  I  urged 
him  to  return  to  you.  I  don't  know  why  I  did;  con- 
vention, I  suppose.  He  turned  away;  and  I  asked  him 
what  he  was  going  to  do.  He  said  he  was  going  to 
the  White  Crown.'  Then  I  took  him  In,  as  being 
more  comfortable  for  him,  less  publicity  for  you,  hap- 
pier for  Rose,  and  better  all  round.  He  treated  me 
as  a  free  agent,  and  I  treated  him  as  a  free  agent." 

Mr.  Bradley's  manner  irritated  Dr.  Denzil  inex- 
pressibly, but  quelled  him  too.  He  kept  fiercely  erect; 
pulled  at  his  moustache;  bit  his  lip;  but,  nevertheless, 
heard  him  throughout.  When  Mr.  Bradley  had  fin- 
ished speaking,  they  stood  regarding  each  other.  Then 
he  said — 

"My  son  is  out,  you  say." 

"Yes." 

"Is  your — Is  Miss  Foggetty  in?" 

"Yes;  but  you  cannot  see  her." 

"Oh I     Why  can't  I  see  her?" 


Jettons  203 

'Tor  one  thing  It  would  distress  her.  For  another 
thing,  I  know  what  you  want  to  say  to  her." 

''Indeed!     And  what  may  that  be?" 

"You  would  say  that  If  she  really  loved  your  son 
she  would  give  him  up,  and  not  wreck  his  chances  of 
what  you  are  pleased  to  call  success." 

"I  must  say  I  don't  think  much  of  her  boasted  affec- 
tion for  him." 

"She  boasts  no  affection.  She  merely  says  she  loves 
him.  But  what  he  gives  up  Is  nothing  to  do  with  her; 
It  Is  his  business ;  what  she  gives  up — for  she,  too,  gives 
up  something — Is  nothing  to  do  with  him.  It  Is  their 
business,  each  of  them,  to  look  to  their  own  side,  and 
not  to  disturb  the  other  with  their  doubt.  I  have  told 
her  this  repeatedly;  I  fear  I  have  had  occasion  to  tell 
her;  I  may  add  I  have  told  her  at  the  request  of  your 
son." 

"May  I  ask  what  Miss  Foggetty  gives  up?"  He 
spoke  incredulously. 

"Her  liberty." 

Dr.  Denzirs  lips  curled  perceptibly;  but  Mr.  Brad- 
ley said  nothing.  The  silence  between  the  two  became 
a  tension,  to  release  which  Dr.  Denzil  said  with  broad 
urbaneness — 

"Really,  Bradley,  I  think  you  must  surely  see  that 
you  are  acting  preposterously  In  keeping  my  own  son 
from  me.  It  Is  your  very  clear  duty  to  send  him  back 
to  me." 

"I  am  really  very  sorry.  Dr.  Denzil.  I  hope  I  shall 
refuse  hospitality  to  none,  least  of  all  to  the  man  who 
wishes  to  be  Rose's  husband.  I  shall  insist  on  his  see- 
ing you  again,  of  course.  But  If  he  wishes  to  inter- 
pret your  threat  in  the  sense  in  which  you  gave  It,  that 
is  his  business,  not  mine." 

Docility  was  obviously  useless  with  a  quiet  deter- 


204  Broken  Arcs 

minatlon  of    this  kind.     Dr.   Denzil  flew  to  anger 

"Your  action's  not  only  preposterous/'  he  exclaimed 
his  figure  seeming  to  tower  over  his  opponent's  thick 
set  pose;  "it's  heinous.     Harry  deserves  a  severe  casti 
gation;  and  as  for  you,  you  ought  to  be  indictable  be 
fore  the  law.     It's  to  the  shame  of  our  sickly  senti 
mentality  these  days  that  children  should  be  given  such 
liberty  from  proper  parental  control,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  interference  of  strangers  who  see  a  catch  for 
their  shameless  protegees." 

Mr.  Bradley's  manner  showed  that  a  rude  hand  had 
been  placed  on  the  raw  of  his  thought.  His  eyes 
flashed,  he  squared  his  shoulders  indignantly,  and 
made  as  though  to  speak,  but  Dr.  Denzil  by  mastery 
of  size  and  lung  overcame  him. 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  my  son's  engagement  in 
this  quarter;  nothing.  I  wasn't  even  consulted;  and 
I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  That's  my  attitude  now, 
as  it  has  been  all  along.  I  wish  to  see  him;  tell  him 
that!  Yet  it  must  be  in  no  other  house  than  the  one 
he  was  born  in.  I  shall  not  discuss  this  question,  for 
I  refuse  to  recognize  it." 

He  strode  past  Mr.  Bradley  as  he  spoke,  waving 
him  aside  with  a  large  gesture.  Even  determined 
Mr.  Bradley,  standing  quietly  foursquare  to  all  his 
wrath,  was  overawed.  He  started  to  speak,  but  again 
his  opponent  quelled  him. 

"No  I  I  don't  wish  to  hear  you  speak.  And  remem- 
ber! I  reserve  my  liberty  to  make  known  the  true 
state  of  affairs  with  regard  to  this  girl." 

He  stood  at  the  open  door  to  see  the  effect  of  this 
on  Mr.  Bradley.     The  latter  started;  then  said — 

"If  your  instinct  does  not  prompt  you  to  be  a  gen- 
tleman no  other  compulsion  will." 

They  faced  each  other  a  moment;  then  Dr.  Denzil 


Actions  205) 

was  gone;  be  it  said,  in  his  honour,  with  no  intention 
of  fulfilling  his  threat. 

Mr.  Bradley  turned  to  some  rumpled  papers,  tidy- 
ing them  nervously.  As  he  did  so  he  murmured  to 
himself:  "Really,  a  most  annoying  man  to  talk  to. 
And  I  particularly  wanted  to  say  something." 


XV 

Upstairs  Rose  heard  Dr.  Denzil  go;  and,  looking 
out  on  him  as  he  strode  up  the  street,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  was  somewhat  won  to  him;  pity  won 
her.  In  its  train  it  brought  other  sentiments.  For 
the  shock  of  battle  was  alive  in  her.  A  physical  com- 
bat is  the  father  of  resolution;  but  mental  conflict  be- 
gets irresolution  upon  irresolution.  When  her  quick, 
ardent  soul  had  been  put  to  its  fires  before,  it  had  been 
simple  of  composition;  moreover,  the  fires  had  been 
furious:  and  consequently,  the  cataclysm  wrought  in 
her  had  been  fierce  and  tremendous.  Now  she  was  no 
longer  simple  but  composite,  and  the  testing  fires  only 
affected  her  through  another;  for  which  causes  no 
great  storm  swept  through  her  soul,  but  little  eddying 
stormlets  irritated  it,  trailing  here  and  there,  and 
never  continuing  sufficiently  long  to  be  located  and 
coped  with.  Such  an  eddying  stormlet  was  astir  on 
some  far  unknown  region  of  her  soul  by  the  pity  her 
heart  felt  as  she  saw  the  doctor  take  his  way  across 
the  street,  and  so  out  of  sight. 

When  Harry  came  in  she  met  him  in  the  hall  and 
helped  him  off  with  his  coat.  His  face  glowed  with 
the  cold  and  the  exercise  of  his  walk.  His  manner 
was  that  of  one  whom  exercise  had  cleaned  and 
purged. 


2o6  Broken  Arcs 

*'Had  a  good  walk?"  she  asked,  and  her  manner 
was  constrained. 

*'0h,  fine!"  he  responded  enthusiastically.  "I  sup- 
pose I've  done  the  best  part  of  fifteen  miles,  which 
would  be  at  the  rate  of  about  five  miles  an  hour. 
Pretty  good  going,  what  do  you  think?''  He  looked 
expectantly  for  warm  commendation,  but  did  not 
find  it. 

*Tour  father  has  been  here,"  she  said,  and  chilled 
him. 

*'0h,  has  he?"  he  said.  *'Let's  come  in  here  and 
talk."  He  drew  his  arm  about  her,  never  heeding 
her  quiet  deadness  of  emotion,  and  led  her  into  the 
sitting-room.  Here  Jim  was  reading.  "Hullo, 
sonny  I"  he  hailed  him,  and  smiled  to  think  of  the  pecu- 
liar fitness  of  the  title  he  decked  him  with.  Jim  made 
way  for  him  on  his  seat  beside  him,  never  now  think- 
ing of  fleeing.  Rose  suggested  that  he  should  vacate 
the  room;  but  Harry  would  not  hear  of  it. 
l-  ^'He  won't  mind  our  wooing.  Rose,"  he  whispered, 
as  he  bent  down  to  kiss  her  hair.  *'He'll  get  plenty 
of  that  later  on,"  he  added  softly. 

Rose  made  no  reply.  Her  thoughts  were  perturbed. 
He  saw  this  quickly  and  said  to  her — 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  dear?  Has  father's 
coming  here  upset  you?"  He  bent  over  her;  and  Jim 
looked  up  with  a  curious  look  at  them. 

"No."     Doubt  swung  to  and  fro  in  her  voice. 

"What  is  it,  then,  dear?  There  seems  a  cloud  be- 
tween us.  What  is  It?"  He  was  no  less  vexed  than 
troubled  as  he  spoke. 

"Oh,  it's  all  come  so  suddenly,  Harry;  I  wish  It  had 
come  more  slowly." 

"What  do  you  mean,  dear?  Our  love?"  Anxiety 
was  rising  in  him,  and  rung  In  his  voice.     The  anx- 


Actions  207 

lety  that  he  thought  he  had  left  behind  out  yonder,  in 
the  sunny,  frosty  fields,  came  back  on  him  where  least 
he  expected  it.     It  came  from  her. 

*'That;  and  everything.  It  all  feels  hardly  real. 
Before  it  was  all  so  quiet  and  easy."  She  clasped  and 
unclasped  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  and  her  eyes  grew 
moist. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  sorry  you  met  me?" 
Storm  rung  now,  rising  in  its  crescendo. 

''Oh,  no!     Oh,  no!     But  yet "    The  stormlet 

far  away  on  the  boundary  of  her  thought  refused  to 
be  located,  refused  to  give  its  secret  of  trouble. 

*'0h,  you  are,  you  are,"  he  cried,  his  face  wrought 
with  distress.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  face.  It 
appeared  that  the  stprmlet  in  her  was  like  to  fetch  a 
tornado  through  him,  as  the  wont  is  with  humankind. 
"I've  staked  everything  here;  and  to  think  that  I  shall 
lose!" 

She  said  nothing  for  awhile,  but  stood  toeing  the 
rug  fretfully.  He  looked  down  at  her,  anger  raking 
up  in  him  distorted  visions  of  what  she  said  and  meant. 
Finding  no  solace  in  her  caresses,  he  found  terrible 
pleasure  in  the  pain  she  caused  him. 

"Must  you  leave  home,  Harry?"  she  said. 

"I  have  left  home."  He  reposed  on  the  accom- 
plished fact,  and  would  think  no  further.  "I  should 
never  go  back  there  in  any  case."  Jim  looked  up  on 
the  two  incomprehensibly  yet  shrewdly.  "Oh,  Rose, 
if  you  don't  love  me,  tell  me,  for  God's  sake,  and  I'll 
clear  out.  But  I'll  never  go  back  there  again."  He 
spoke  with  angry  distress,  and  as  he  spoke  Jim  came 
up  and  nestled  against  him.  Harry's  hand  fell  on  his 
head  in  caress. 

Rose  looked  up  at  him,  wide-eyed. 

"Harry,  I  do  love  you.     Of  course  I  love  you." 


2o8  Broken  Arcs 

Her  tone  spoke  as  though  the  fact  were  out  of  ques- 
tion. 

"Then  why  all  this  bother  and  perplexity?" 

She  came  up  to  him  and  caressed  him. 

"Don't  mind  me  if  Tm  strange,  dear  I"  she  said. 
"I  usen't  to  be  like  this  once.  I  think  I  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  doubt.  But  now  It  seems  to  have  be- 
come part  of  my  mind  to  expect  trouble.  Doubt  is 
always  a  part  of  me  now;  Fm  always  looking  for 
things  to  turn  out  wrong.  I  don't  know  why  it  is ;  but 
it  is  so.     Every  little  thing  starts  it." 

"But  you  do  love  me,  Rose?"  Jim  sat  over  in  his 
chair  and  surveyed  them. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  do.  I  think  really  you're  every- 
thing to  me,  Harry.  I  suppose  some  would  say — 
evil-minded  people  would  say — that  you're  my  only 
chance.  Of  course  you're  not.  But  in  another  sense 
you  are.  I  think  if  I  lost  you  I  should  lose  every- 
thing." 

"My  Rose,  you  know  what  you  are  to  me.  I  needn't 
tell  you,  I  think.  But  don't  make  fresh  troubles  and 
perplexities,  dear.  There  are  enough  as  it  is,  aren't 
there?" 

"Yes;  I  suppose  there  are." 

Yet  as  she  caressed  and  soothed  him,  the  stormlet 
had  not  moved  from  its  corner  of  her  mind,  though 
its  power  was  diminished.  She  knew  it  there;  and 
he  knew  something  there.  He  came  to  see,  or  rather 
dimly  to  feel,  that  there  was  a  restlessness  in  her  mind, 
and  an  impatience  in  his,  that  consorted  not  well  with 
each  other.  His  had  been  born  of  a  wilful  life,  and 
the  dominant  blood  of  his  father  In  him;  hers  through 
an  ancient  distress  and  disillusionment  striking  on  a 
firm  emotional  nature.  His  Impatience  upcalled  her 
restlessness;  and  her  restlessness    excited    his    impa- 


Actions  209 

tience.  Yet  as  her  head  inclined  on  his  bosom,  and 
his  lips  bent  to  find  her  upturned  ones,  the  very  pas- 
sion of  fulfilled  existence  surged  through  him.  Each 
knew  the  other  his  and  hers,  and  stood  proudly  to  ful- 
fil the  pledge  so  plighted.  Neither  paid  heed  or  at- 
tention to  Jim,  who  stood  surveying  them  wonder- 
ingly. 

When  Mr.  Bradley  came  In  later  he  did  so  with  a 
considerable  clatter  and  bustle. 

"YouVe  making  a  great  deal  of  noise,  father,"  said 
Rose,  startifig  away  from  Harry. 

**A  man  Is  always  wise  to  do  that  with  lovers  about 
the  place,"  said  he;  whereat  she  blushed.  ''Harry, 
lad!"  he  continued,  "your  father's  been  here." 

"So  Rose  told  me."  Harry's  heart  beat  furiously, 
fearfully. 

"He's  very  upset." 

"Oh?  Anyhow,  he  was  pretty  cool  when  he  spoke 
to  me."     Harry's  manner  was  defiant. 

Mr.  Bradley  looked  quizzically  at  him  and  thought, 
"Like  father,  like  son,"  but  spoke  in  quite  a  different 
tenor. 

"You'll  have  to  see  him;  and  as  he  won't  see  you 
except  in  his  own  house,  you'll  have  to  go  and  see  him 
there.  Oh,  I  know  it's  not  nice,"  he  added,  as  distaste 
flashed  over  Harry's  face,  "but  you'll  have  to  do  It." 

"I  can't  go  there,"  protested  Harry. 

"It's  for  you  to  say,  of  course.  You'd  be  the  better 
man,  though.  If  you  went  through  with  it.  It's  a 
strange  thing  for  a  son  to  be  afraid  of  his  father,  I 
think." 

"Yes,  but  whose  fault  is  It,  Mr.  Bradley?"  Harry 
opened  out  in  protestation. 

"Well,  well;  we'll  have  to  talk  about  it.  Later  will 
do.     Perhaps  it's  too  near  the  event  now." 


210  Broken  Arcs 

Rose  slipped  her  arm  into  Harry's,  seeing  him  per- 
turbed and  distressed. 


XVI 

Some  evenings  after  this  they  sat  round  the  fire, 
and  one  thought  was  in  all  their  minds.  Harry  sat 
between  Rose  and  Jim,  while  Mr.  Bradley  sat  over 
on  the  opposite  side  surveying  them.  Rose's  hand 
had  stealthily  dropped  down  beside  her,  and  called  an 
aery  soft  summons  to  its  unobedient  fellow  that  till 
then  had  lain  in  Harry's  pocket.  Thus,  her  soft  hand 
In  his,  Harry  was  swayed  between  the  delight  of  her 
presence  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  his  predominant  per- 
plexity on  the  other.  Jim,  contrary  to  his  usual  cus- 
tom, was  not  reading,  but  sat  close  against  Harry  on 
the  other  side,  alternating  a  moody  gaze  into  the  fire 
with  a  sly  upward  glance  at  his  new  friend.  Mr. 
Bradley,  surveying  them  from  over  the  way,  smiled 
gently  at  the  united  picture  the  three  of  them  pre- 
sented, the  two  lovers,  and  he  who  was  not  alone  the 
tragic  emblem  of  the  past,  but  a  symbol  In  himself  of 
the  dark  hand  of  perplexity  that  overhung  the  com- 
pany now.  Though  he  smiled,  that  was  not  to  mean, 
however,  that  his  thoughts  were  woven  all  of  the 
pleasant.  Over  his  mind  was  the  same  perplexity  that 
held  Harry,  and  that  in  a  lesser  degree  brooded  over 
the  heart  of  Rose.  It  was  the  deep  question  of  the 
next  move  to  be  taken. 

Mr.  Bradley  was  about  to  speak  when  Jim  fore- 
stalled him. 

"May  I  call  you  father?"  said  he,  timidly  quaver- 
ing in  his  voice  as  he  looked  up  at  Harry's  somewhat 
melancholy  face.     '^I've  never  had  any  one   to  call 


Actions  211 

father,  and  I  should  like  you  to  be  father,  if  you  don't 
mind;' 

Harry's  face  broke  out  into  a  rare  smile.  Turning 
to  Rose,  whom  a  pang  of  distress  had  riven,  he  said — 

''May  he,  Rose?" 

Rose  looked  up  half-shyly  at  him  in  a  new  responsi- 
bility of  maternal  decision.  The  smile  from  his  face 
lit  over  hers  as  she  replied — 

"I  suppose  so.  He'll  have  to  some  time,  won't 
he?" 

Harry  conveyed  the  news  to  Jim,  and  called  across 
to  Mr.  Bradley. 

''That's  what  you  call  a  family  compact,  eh!" 

Mr.  Bradley  smiled;  and  said  softly — 

"There's  another  family  compact  that'll  have  to  be 
attended  to  sooner  or  later." 

"I'll  go  to-night,"  said  Harry,  with  sudden  energy. 

"To-night?"  echoed  Rose. 

"It's  not  a  bad  plan  to  clip  the  thing  before  it  stales 
in  your  mind,  Harry,"  said  Mr.  Bradley.  "With  you 
especially,"  he  added. 

"Yes;  and  I'll  go  now,  and  get  it  done  with,"  went 
on  Harry,  taking  the  wave  of  resolution  as  it  rose  be- 
fore him.  He  stood  erect  in  witness  that  he  fore- 
swore dalliance. 

"Well,  Rose,"  said  Mr.  Bradley,  when  Harry  had 
gone,  "I  admire  your  choice.  I  think  he's  a  fine  fel- 
low. I've  come  to  think  better  of  the  question  of 
breeding,  too,  since  I've  known  him.  Breeding  gets 
nerves,  and  nerves  are  a  fine  thing  to  a  man.  I  needn't 
ask  your  opinion,"  he  added,  pinching  her  cheek,  and 
stroking  a  finger  over  her  eyebrow. 

"Father,"  she  said  fearlessly;  "I  think  the  world  of 
him.  Of  course  I  love  him;  but  more  than  that,  I 
think  him  perfect  honour.     I  love  the  way,  for  in- 


212  Broken  Arcs 

stance,  he   assumes  a   simple    equality  In  our  love." 

**Love  is  equal,  you  goose." 

*Tes,  but  how  many  people  think  that,  father?  Yet 
Harry  scarcely  thinks  of  it;  he  acts  on  It.  Of  course  I 
oughtn't  to  feel  grateful,  because  It's  the  proper  state 
of  affairs;  but  It  touches  me  inexpressibly.  One 
oughtn't  to  feel  grateful  for  the  sun,  but  one  does.  It 
only  shows  what  disappointments  we  all  get  when  we 
feel  elated  at  getting  our  due." 

"Rose,"  said  Mr.  Bradley  playfully,  but  with  the 
hard  ridge  of  earnestness  moving  strongly  In  his  voice ; 
"don't  make  the  initial  mistake  of  expecting  a  demi- 
god. Take  him  for  a  human,  and  you'll  come  out  of  the 
fire  all  right.  Believe  him  to  be  a  fair  man  and  you 
won't  make  for  yourself  a  bed  of  disappointment  to  lie 
in.  Love  Is  the  magnificent  thing  of  the  earth;  and  if 
it's  in  discredit  anywhere,  it's  because  lovers  ask  angels 
instead  of  mortals :  which,  you  know.  Is  really  surpris- 
ing, because  angels  are  often  a  bore.  Mind  you,  I  think 
well  of  Harry;  but  he's  impulsive  and  he's  impatient. 
Such  men  make  the  finest  of  mankind,  but  they  also 
make  the  frailest  of  men.  Their  fellow-men  admire 
the  fineness;  but  their  wives  murmur  at  the  frailty. 
Don't  you  be  caught  tripping.  Do  you  know  why  I  tell 
you  all  this?" 

"No,"  she  said,  heeding  him  a  little  impatiently. 

"Well,  I  tell  you  because  you  are  rather  apt  to  think, 
little  Rosey,  that  because  you've  had  one  nasty  experi- 
ence It  has  taught  you  all  wisdom.  Life  doesn't  stand 
still,  you  know.  Now,  don't  pout!"  Rose  was  looking 
discountenanced.  "I'm  not  a  preacher,  as  you  know, 
though  I  sometimes  like  to  think  myself  a  politician. 
I'm  only  concerned  in  your  welfare;  and  I  may  say, 
little  girl,  in  his  too,  for  I  like  him." 

"No,  I  oughtn't  to  be  cross,  for  you're  a  dear  old 


Actions  213 

dad.'*  Rose  recovered  her  humour  and  his  with  a 
salute. 

It  was  late  that  night  before  Harry  returned;  and 
he  came  in  with  a  clouded  distressed  countenance. 
Flinging  off  his  coat  he  said — 

"I've  had  a  walk  round  to  think  it  out.  It's  all  over 
there.'*  Rose  clung  to  his  arm  and  led  him  into  the 
warmed  room.  "The  only  one  with  sense  was  Bobby; 
and  he  said  it  all  depended  on  the  girl,  that  some  girls 
were  rotters  and  some  stunners.  I  think  the  virtue 
or  vice  of  my  action  depended  for  him  on  which  cate- 
gory contained  you,  dear.  Unfortunately  he's  forbid- 
den the  opportunity  of  finding  out  for  himself." 

"How  was  Dr.  Denzil?"  Mr.  Bradley  said  coolly, 
to  steady  him. 

"As  he  always  is  with  me,  cool,  dignified,  implaca- 
ble. If  he'd  only  unbend  a  bit  we  could,  perhaps, 
come  to  an  understanding.  But  then,  I  suppose,  if  he 
had  been  the  kind  to  unbend  he'd  never  originally  have 
been  so  autocratic." 

"What  did  he  say,  dear?"  asked  Rose. 

"He  started  off  by  taxing  me  with  an  unfilial  atti- 
tude. You  see,  I  never  can  get  at  the  man,  we've  got 
no  common  platform.  He  denies  me  with  the  first 
thing  I  ask,  my  freedom  of  action.  In  other  words 
he  denies  me  myself.  I  wish  to  be  Henry  Denzil,  or 
Henry  Foggetty  for  that  matter,  but  myself  anyway; 
he  wishes  me  to  be  Dr.  Ernest  Denzil's  son,  an  appen- 
dix to  himself,  a  digit  on  his  hand.  The  whole  thing's 
so  impossible.  I  have  as  much  right  to  deny  him  his 
freedom  of  action  as  he  mine ;  but  I  don't." 

"Perhaps  you  do,"  said  Mr.  Bradley  quietly.  "You 
dispute  his  right  to  turn  you  off." 

"No,  I  don't.  I  think  it's  ungenerous,  and  we  have 
a  right  to  expect  of  every  man  that  he  be  generous. 


214  Broken  Arcs 

But  I  don't  dispute  It.  If  he  doesn't  like  Rose"  (he 
drew  her  to  him)  **let  him  say  so.  But  why  can't  we 
part  as  friends?" 

"I'm  afraid,  Harry,  you're  expecting  an  Impossible 
world.  But  come,  you're  not  telling  us  the  facts  of 
the  Interview;  you're  giving  us  your  views  on  the  uni- 
verse." 

"Well,  he  received  me  with  cold  pomp — there's  no 
other  phrase  for  It,  because  that's  just  what  It  was. 
I  suppose  I  was  antagonistic;  I  don't  know.  If  I  was, 
it  was  In  self-defence :  I  had  to  be.  That  was  scarcely 
a  good  start.  He  asked  me  what  I  meant  by  my  line 
of  action.  I  asked  what  line  of  action.  At  that  he 
drew  himself  off  in  that  high  perplexing  way  of  his, 
and  said  he  didn't  wish  an  argument." 

*'I  never  liked  him,"  burst  in  Rose;  "and  that  was 
just  what  I  didn't  like  in  him." 

"Go  on,  Harry!"  said  Mr.  Bradley. 

"Well,  that  was  a  false  start;  the  first,  for  we  had 
several  like  that.  I  could  never  get  under  way.  We 
had  no  common  ground  to  get  the  feet  of  conversation 
going  on.  I  said  I  wished  to  get  an  understanding 
with  regard  to  my  engagement.  He  said  he  didn't 
recognize  any  of  my  actions.  So  there  we  were, 
floundering  again  I  I  don't  know  whether  he  thought 
he  would  wear  me  out.  I'm  afraid  I  got  Irritable." 
■  "What  did  you  say?"  asked  Rose. 

"I  told  him  he  professed  himself  as  a  Radical,  and 
the  first  Radical  principle  was  personal  freedom.  I 
said  I  was  entitled  to  my  freedom  of  person,  as  he  was 
to  his,  and  therefore  we  ought  to  be  able  to  discuss 
this  thing  as  equals." 

"H'm  I  that  was  scarcely  wise.  But  still,  what  did 
he  say  to  that?"  Mr.  Bradley  said,  a  flickering  smile 
travelling  his  face  as  he  spoke. 


Actions  215 

"Said  he  wanted  no  Impertinence,  and  that  I  was 
please  to  remember  the  difference  In  our  positions." 

"You're  well  rid  of  him,  dear;  that  you  are!'*  broke 
out  Rose,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"Rose!"  expostulated  Mr.  Bradley. 

"Well,  I  meant  It,  and  I  said  It."  She  implied  de- 
termination. 

"Then  Cicely  came  in,"  Harry  went  on.  "You  can 
guess  how  she  went  on.  I  like  Cicely;  but  her  Philis- 
tine gush  and  stupid  lamentations  got  the  better  of  me 
then.  I  had  to  Indulge  In  a  little  sarcasm  as  a  styptic 
for  her.  I'm  afraid  I  didn't  come  out  of  it  with  shin- 
ing colours,  Mr.  Bradley." 

"Never  mind!  no  one  ever  does  in  critical  moments; 
that  only  happens  in  books.     Go  on!" 

"Well,  Cicely's  gushing  intervention  had  one  useful 
end.  It  made  the  fact  of  my  engagement  with  this 
dear  girl  unavoidable.  He  said  if  I  wished  to  return 
I  would  have  to  renounce  all  my  folly,  that's  how  he 
put  It.  I  said,  engagement  or  no  engagement,  having 
once  left  I  didn't  propose  to  return.  He  opened  his 
eyes  at  that,  and  Cicely  looked  frightened." 

"What  did  he  say?"     'Twas  Rose  that  asked. 

"He  sneered,  and  asked  what  I  proposed  to  do.  I 
said  I  hadn't  thought  of  that;  that  was  a  later  dlflJ- 
culty;  one  was  enough  at  a  time.  He  asked  why  I  had 
come  round.  I  said,  to  shake  hands.  Pie  said  he 
feared  that  was  Impossible." 

"The  beast!"  Rose  exploded  again. 

"Rose,  Rose,  Rose,"  crooned  Mr.  Bradley  softly, 
in  gentle  reproof. 

"I  asked  If  I  could  have  all  my  clothes,  pictures  and 
books,  with  the  money  I  have  in  the  bank.  He  said, 
certainly;  and  then  turned  calmly  to  a  book  he  was 
reading.     So  I  went  out,  followed  by  Cicely.     It  was 


2i6  Broken  Arcs 

something  he  said  as  I  got  to  the  door  that  maddened 


me. 


"What  was  that?"  It  was  Mr.  Bradley's  quiet 
voice  this  time. 

"He  said  he  supposed  I  intended  living  on  your 
charity." 

"Well,  suppose  you  do.     Are  you  above  It?" 

Harry  looked  bewildered.  This  was  a  point  of  view 
not  thought  of  by  him.     He  burst  out — 

"Yes,  I  think  I  am." 

"I  don't  mind.  There  are  two  ways  of  looking  at 
it.  What  will  you  do?"  Mr.  Bradley's  quiet  reserve 
of  strength,  and  the  modulated  tone  of  approval  in 
his  voice,  aided  Harry  immensely. 

"I'm  going  up  to  London  next  Monday."  He  spoke 
.with  the  energetic  determination  of  a  strong  resolve. 

"Next  Monday?"     Rose's  voice  quavered. 

"Yes,  dear.  Don't  make  it  difficult  for  me!'*  he 
whispered. 

Silence  enveloped  them  with  its  quiet  pall.  Not  the 
silence  of  peace;  the  silence  of  stress  and  agitation, 
rather!  Deep  called  across  deep  from  heart  to  heart. 
A  common  fusion,  they  knew  then,  such  as  human 
souls  rarely  achieve.  It  was  a  simple  decision  he  had 
taken,  one  as  frequent  as  there  are  mouths  to  fill,  as 
common  as  there  are  lives  to  live;  but  to  him,  and 
therefore  to  them  all,  it  was  as  fateful  as  a  crisis,  as 
momentous  as  the  fall  of  Troy,  for  it  meant  the  turn- 
ing from  an  old  order  to  a  new.  And  the  new  was 
shrouded  in  mystery.  How  little  the  eye  of  man  dis- 
cerns the  crises  that  break  about  him,  as  starting  bub- 
bles round  a  craft  in  an  inland  stream !  It  was  Rose 
who  broke  the  silence. 

"Can't  we  all  go  up  there?"  she  asked. 

"I  expect,"  said  Mr.  Bradley,  "if  Harry  wants  to 


Actions  217 

be  looking  for  work  it  would  be  scarcely  wise  to  dis- 
tract him." 

Harry  was  pleased  that  Mr.  Bradley  so  helped  him. 
Yet  he  pressed  Rose  closer  to  him  as  though  it  were 
a  mutual  loss ;  for  It  Indeed  was  so. 

"What  did  you  propose  to  do,  Harry?" 
"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Bradley.     A  friend  of  mine  is 
a  leader-writer  up  there.     He  was  at  Balliol  with  me. 
I  think  I'll  go  and  see  him  first." 


XVII 

The  decision  that  Harry  had  come  to  In  the  clear 
frosty  night  after  the  unsatisfactory  interview  with 
his  father,  seemed  a  matter  of  wholly  different  texture 
the  following  day.  Seeing  he  had  gripped  resolve  he 
abode  by  It.  But  he  was  so  far  man  as  still  to  be  sen- 
timental. He  knew  that  the  virtue  of  life  lies  in  stress- 
ful decisions;  and  he  knew,  therefore,  that  now,  for 
the  first  time,  he  was  about  to  live,  with  all  that  that 
meant  of  anxiety,  fear  and  disappointment.  More,  he 
was  eager  for  the  fray.  The  nostrils  of  his  mind  di- 
lated at  far  scent  of  battle.  This  did  not  mean,  how- 
ever, that  had  he  been  put  to  his  decision  over  again 
he  would  have  resolved  similarly.  For  his  heart  rose 
insurgent,  and  painted  his  parting  from  Rose  as  a  cata- 
clysm dire,  an  unmixed  evil.  She,  too,  though  she 
took  the  fact  as  inevitable,  unalterable  by  lament, 
found  in  It  a  theme  for  tragic  tears.  It  was  not  that 
he  had  so  far  to  go.  But  any  distance  that  forbade 
daily  caresses,  or,  at  least,  daily  visual  feasts,  took 
tragic  hues,  shook  a  hateful  malignity  of  Fate  at  them. 
It  became  like  the  tearing  of  flesh  off  bone  for  them, 
this  parting;  and  they  shuddered  at  thought  of  it  as  at 


2i8  Broken  Arcs 

a  surgeon's  knife.  It  was  well  for  him  that  he  had  not 
had  to  make  his  decision  again. 

So  when  the  train  drew  out  of  the  station,  and  the 
figures  of  Rose  and  Mr.  Bradley  waved  farewell  for 
him,  he  thought  that  that  hour  sounded  the  very  knell 
of  good  cheer,  and  found  the  very  abysm  of  bitterness 
and  gloom.  Her  eyes  had  held  back  their  tears;  but 
he  could  see  them,  nevertheless,  like  a  great  tide  roll- 
ing through  her  soul.  He  cursed  life  as  needlessly 
tragic,  as  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  remembering 
the  vision  of  her. 

Let  him  have  his  sorrow  to  the  full;  for  it  was  not 
only  sentimentallsm.  Had  he  been  going  to  erect  a 
certain  home  for  her,  even  the  fearful  interposition  of 
time  betwixt  them  had  been  lightly  waved  aside.  But 
he  was  Issuing  on  an  unknown  world,  and  knew  it,  and 
knew  not  what  it  held  for  them.  The  expectation  of 
good  has  found  its  name  in  Hope;  the  fear  of  evil  has 
found  Its  name  in  Dread.  And  where  uncertainty  is. 
Dread  steps  in.  Dread  stepped  in  now;  and  made 
their  parting  doubly  sore. 

He  was  still  bowed  in  relapsed  misery  when  the 
lights  of  London  sclntilated  far  ahead  of  the  urgent 
engine.  And  when  he  trod  its  pavements  Melancholy 
claimed  him,  his  very  overflow  of  healthful  emotion 
aiding  her  in  conquest  of  him. 


BOOK   III 
COGITATIONS 


It  is  no  part  of  the  chronicler's  task  to  record  mat- 
ters not  incident  to  the  theme  he  tells.  The  swell  of 
the  wave  in  its  rise  and  fall  demands  that  there  be  no 
rifts  to  mar  its  curve.  It  demands,  too,  with  no  less 
imperious  tone,  that  there  be  no  bulbous  protuberances 
to  spoil  its  beauty.  It  is  the  perfect  artist  that  finds 
the  balance  betwixt  the  contrary  temptations  of  need- 
less digression  and  an  impatience  that  leaves  canyons 
to  be  leapt.  Moreover,  it  is  an  artist  that  seeks 
neglect. 

Thus,  it  is  no  part  of  the  present  matter  to  trace 
with  minute  detail  Harry's  doings  in  London  during 
the  first  period  of  his  sojourn  there.  Yet  that  subse- 
quent matters  may  come  to  a  due  and  meet  under- 
standing, it  is  necessary  that  the  sequence  of  his  actions 
be  established.  No  crisis  is  there,  in  a  man's  life,  but 
has  its  antecedent  preparation.  The  ripples  that 
spread  far  and  wide  on  a  fair  sheet  of  water  seemed 
to  have  sole  cause  in  the  pebble  that  struck  and  dis- 
turbed its  peace.  But  it  is  not  so.  Back  through  the 
pebble  to  the  hand  that  hurled  it,  back  thence  again 
to  the  thought  that  conceived  the  deed,  and  again  to 
the  mood  that  conceived  the  thought,  the  occasion  that 
conceived  the  mood,  thus  an  anterior  eternity  is  dis- 
covered no  less  than  an  eternity  that  rolls  swiftly  for- 
ward into  the  unknown.  Crises  are  knots  in  an  end- 
less texture ;  and  seeing  that  their  fashion  is  the  fashion 

221 


222  Broken  Arcs 

of  the  texture,  the  texture  must  needs  first  be  under- 
stood that  the  knot  be  truly  known.  How  much  of  the 
texture  demands  examination  depends  on  the  knot; 
how  much  receives  It  depends  on  the  artist's  vagary. 

The  date  after  his  arrival,  Harry  had  sought  out  his 
friend  Battersby,  and  put  his  case  to  him. 

*'My  dear  man,"  Battersby  had  replied,  "your  ex- 
cellence has  fallen  in  eclipse.  I  suppose  you  would 
like  to  have  it  called  heroic  love ;  but  I  call  it  a  sample 
of  the  modern  tendency  to  Independence,  and  a  deuced 
bad  example  at  that.  It's  a  bad  case,  'pon  my  word! 
Erotic  mania  started  it,  but  it  was  only  waiting  to  be 
started.     That's  my  diagnosis." 

"Never  mind  about  diagnosis ;  it's  rather  a  question 
of  prognosis  I'm  after." 

"Pray  explain;  and,  incidentally,  have  some  claret. 
It's  not  bad,  though  I've  tasted  better." 

"Well,"  Harry  had  said,  "I'm  kicked  out,  and  have 
to  earn  a  living,  with  a  view  to  marrying  at  the  earli- 
est possible  moment.  Alma  Mater  turned  out  a  bet- 
ter son  in  me  than  she  did  in  you,  so  far  as  titular 
honours  go,  so  I  ought  not  to  have  a  difficulty.  I 
want  you  to  help  me."  Battersby's  reversion  to  the 
manner  of  his  college  friendship  struck  like  a  tonic  air 
on  Harry's  brooding  melancholy.  He  was  some  few 
years  Harry's  senior,  and  had  shared  two  years  at 
Balllol  with  him. 

"I  know.  Want  to  storm  things.  Well,  it  won't 
be  done.     Thought  anything  of  journalism?" 

"That's  just  what  I  did  think  of.  You  know  I've 
got  a  few  ideas,  and  have  thought  a  bit.  I  didn't  do 
so  badly  at  debate." 

"Ideas?  Good  heavens  I  Well,  you  keep  dark 
about  those,  old  chap,  or  you're  crippled  at  the  start. 
If  you're  a  born  propagandist,  why,  then,  you'll  try 


Cogitations  223 

and  sneak  them  In  surreptitiously,  and  hope  for  the 
best.  Fleet  Street  doesn't  want  Ideas;  they  smudge 
out  the  ruts,  and  people  like  going  In  ruts,  for  then 
they  know  where  they  are.  That's  just  an  Initiatory 
caution,  old  man,  or  youVe  shelved.  Try  and  say 
what  everybody  else  Is  saying,  right  or  wrong,  only  try 
and  say  It  a  bit  more  lightly — or  heavily,  as  the  case 
may  be;  I'm  on  a  lightly.'  The  heavy  brigade  pays 
better,  though." 

This  worldly  wisdom  struck  chill  across  Harry's 
ardent  hopes,  but  they  rose  triumphant,  and  he  had 
replied — 

"Well,  leave  that!  Do  you  know  of  anything, 
though?     And  what  do  you  advise  me  to  do?" 

''I  believe  Timpklns  wants  a  junior  leader-writer — 
Timpkins  writes  for  the  Morning  News,  I  believe  he's 
a  brute  to  work  under,  and  I  understand  their  pay  is 
shocking.  Still,  that's  the  only  thing  I  know  of.  You 
might  try  at  that  for  a  start,  anyway.  By  the  way, 
where  are  your  diggings?" 

"I  have  only  just  come  up.  I  stayed  at  an  hotel 
last  night." 

^Thought  you  looked  pretty  glum.  You'd  better 
get  quarters  somewhere  about  here  In  Chelsea.  It's 
a  rotten  district,  but  it's  as  good  as  most.  Until  you 
do,  what  d'you  say  to  putting  up  here  ?  You  can  have 
that  sofa;  or,  if  you  like,  I'll  have  the  sofa,  and  you 
have  the  bed;  or  take  turn  and  turn  about;  any  device 
that  commends  itself  to  you.     More  claret?" 

"No,  thanks.  I  say,  Battersby,  how  do  you  think 
I'll  do?  I  don't  feel  quite  so  buckish  as  I  did  this 
morning." 

"Have  some  more  claret,  then.  Oh,  I've  no  doubt 
you'll  do.  We  all  struggle  through  one  way  or  an- 
other; though  Heavens  knows  how  some  of  us  do  it. 


224  Broken  Arcs 

By  the  way,  let  me  see,  I  forget,  youVe  a  Radical, 
aren't  you?" 

"I  suppose  most  people  would  call  me  that.  Fm 
rather  a  free  lance,  as  a  point  of  fact.  I  think  party 
politics  all  nonsense;  it's  atrophying  to  the  intelli- 
gence." 

"Oh,  mercy  me !  I  say,  Denzil,  you'll  have  to  stuff 
all  that  in  your  pocket.  We  don't  want  truth,  we 
want  the  party  cry  as  loud  as  possible,  and  the  shekels 
to  the  man  with  the  loudest  voice.  The  header's'  the 
place  where  the  crying  is  done." 

"But,  my  dear  chap,  independence  of  thought  is  the 
fibre  of  being." 

"Well  now,  I  begin  to  have  hopes  of  you.  That 
was  rather  finely  put.  You  may  say  that,  but  you 
mustn't  mean  it ;  above  all,  you  mustn't  act  on  it.  May 
I  take  that?  No,  I  won't,  though;  I'll  respect  your 
copyright.     Honour  among  thieves." 

Battersby  stood  representative  to  Harry  of  certain 
immense  forces  of  inertia  that  quailed  his  thought. 
It  was  with  something  of  deep  despondency  that  he 
had  replied — 

"Thanks,  I'll  stay  here  If  you'll  let  me.  This  thing's 
beginning  to  get  on  my  nerves." 

"Do.  But  keep  your  tail  up.  Failure  generally 
makes  its  beginning  in  the  man,  and  then  in  his  work. 
Let's  go  and  have  some  lunch." 

"But  I'm  taking  you  away  from  your  work." 

"Not  a  bit.  Or,  to  be  candid,  you  are;  only  it 
doesn't  matter.  It's  only  some  foreign  philosopher 
I'm  translating  on  commission.  It  ekes  out  the  shekels, 
that  kind  of  thing." 

Which  conversation  had  left  a  dire  impression  on 
Harry's  mind,  and  increased  his  gloom  to  a  consider- 
able extent,  as  his  letter  to  Rose  that  night  had  shown. 


Cogitations  224 

It  had  been  his  second,  for  Immediately  on  his  arrival 
he  had  written  her  a  love  lamentation  of  considerable 
length.  And  he  had  received  one  from  her  that  morn- 
ing, sent  to  a  predestined  post-office,  couched  In  terms 
strangely  similar  to  his  own  of  the  night  previous,  love 
having  used  the  instrumentation  of  each  to  pour  out 
its  hatred  at  a  severance  in  those  it  had  spun  to  unity. 

That  evening  he  had  brought  over  his  Impedimenta, 
and  lodged  them  with  himself  In  Battersby's  small  flat. 
He  had  the  evening  to  himself,  for  Battersby  was  at 
his  paper.  As  he  had  determined  to  wait  till  his  com- 
panion's return,  he  had  a  long  time  to  himself  and  to 
his  thoughts.  Which  time  he  had  occupied  in  writing 
the  letter  already  mentioned  to  Rose.  It  was  a  river 
of  tears.  In  it  he  called  down  Heaven  to  witness  that 
some  dire  kink  In  this  world's  constitution  was  respon- 
sible for  the  devastating  fact  that  the  rude  hand  of 
separation  should  be  interposed  ever  at  any  time  be- 
tween two  wedded  hearts.     It  was  an  outrage. 

Love  Is  a  pledge  of  eternity;  but  it  begrudges  the 
loss  of  a  moment  of  time. 


II 

In  spite  of  the  melancholy  that  bound  Harry,  he  had 
set  about  doing  what  lay  in  his  power  to  rectify  his 
financial  lot  with  sane  considerable  earnestness  and 
energy.  It  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  throwing  off 
the  lethargy  which  is  melancholy's  concomitant  fellow. 
Moreover,  the  more  speedily  he  advanced  now  the 
nearer  he  came  to  that  stupendous  moment  when  they 
would  be  able  to  make  the  supreme  fact  of  their  high 
unity  complete  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  For  this 
he  worked ;  and  since  no  disillusionment  or  disappoint- 


226  Broken  Arcs 

ment  had  come  to  mar  the  sweet  vision  that  the  Future 
waved  before  him  on  her  dim  horizons,  despite  his 
present  melancholy,  his  prospect  was  full  of  all  hope 
for  him.  Even  Battersby's  worldly  wisdom  had  failed 
to  quench  his  reviving  ardour. 

Battersby  had  procured  Harry  an  introduction  to 
the  Timpkins  of  his  reference,  and  had  pronounced  the 
introduction  "as  good  as  the  job."  Which  had  duly 
elated  Harry,  the  elation  suffering  some  damage  as 
a  fortnight  passed  and  no  reply  came  to  the  letter 
Harry  had  written. 

*'Lord  bless  you,  Denzil,  they  never  hurry.  Of 
course,  you  know,  they're  pretty  busy.  Besides  that, 
supplicants  have  to  wait  always;  It's  the  first  principle 
of  law  and  order.  But  you'll  get  a  reply;  the  Intro- 
duction has  assured  that  much." 

"But "  Harry  had  started,  somewhat  embar- 
rassed. 

"Shekels?  Aye!  They  do  persist  in  going  out  in 
a  most  uncomfortable  way,  that's  true.  I  wonder  if 
my  chief  would  send  you  a  few  books  to  review." 

"Would  you  mind  asking?  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  howl- 
ing nuisance  to  you,  Battersby.  I'm  sorry;  but  you're 
the  only  man  I  can  get  hold  of." 

"Besides,  you've  got  me  cornered  in  my  flat.  But 
you're  right  to  keep  on  pegging  away  at  me;  it's  the 
only  way;  Importunity  is  a  great  art.  Certainly  I'll 
ask." 

"Thanks!" 

"If  you  get  them,  praise  them  indiscriminately. 
Praise  with  a  judicial  *ahem,'  is  the  paying  method; 
then  everybody's  pleased,  the  paper  gets  its  advertise- 
ments, and  the  reviewer  puts  in  a  word  for  his  self- 
respect.  That's  for  prose.  Poetry  Is  to  be  con- 
demned just   as    Indiscriminately   as  prose   is   to  be 


Cogitations  227 

praised.  That  Is,  except  for  a  few  pot  names;  but  those 
you'll  never  get,  nor  I  either;  these  go  to  some  friends 
of  the  poet  in  question,  who  cover  him  with  unction 
whatever  drivel  he  tolls  out.  He  has  made  his  name, 
you  see." 

Harry  had  smiled  at  this. 

*'There  seem  to  be  rules  of  conduct  in  journalism," 
he  had  said. 

''Oh,  aye !  rather.  It's  a  trade,  you  see,  and  youVe 
got  to  know  the  ropes.  The  same  thing's  done  the 
same  way  every  time.  I've  heard  those  commercial 
chaps  that  come  to  us  for  advertisements  sometimes 
say  they  have  to  study  the  precise  psychological  mo- 
ment to  pick  an  imaginary  hair  off  the  lapel  of  a  man's 
coat  to  bring  off  a  large  order.  Now  that's  what  I 
call  an  art.  It's  dealing  in  correspondences  of  thought 
and  emotion.  In  comparison  with  that  we're  merely 
shrieking  platitudes  or  falsehoods." 

The  following  morning  Battersby  had  informed 
Harry  that  his  chief  had  said  that  stern  necessity  ruled 
out  with  an  inflexible  hand  that  the  reviewing  band 
was  in  no  way  to  be  enlarged.  Nor  would  he  permit 
an  exception  to  the  rule;  nor  would  he  allow  a  tem- 
porary aberration  by  way  of  pecuniary  relief  to  the 
needy.  Harry  smiled  sardonically,  as  he  gulped  down 
his  disappointment.  But  compensation  had  come  with 
the  post,  bearing  an  epistle  from  the  aloof  Timpklns, 
bidding  him  attend  the  following  evening  at  the  Morn- 
ing  News  office  with  regard  to  his  application. 

The  following  day  being  a  Sunday,  London  was 
wrapped  in  its  mysterious  Sabbatic  calm.  Whence- 
ever  It  comes,  like  a  dim  sanctity  enveloping  Britain, 
it  was  something  far  other  than  the  mere  cessation  of 
labour,  far  deeper  than  the  mere  taking  up  of  an  eccle- 
siastical habit:  it  was  a  cause  rather  than  an  effect,  a 


228  Broken  Arcs 

thing  intrinsic  rather  than  a  shade  or  lustre.  So  Harry 
had  felt  it  as  he  stepped  through  the  quiet  glooming 
streets.  A  fog  had  wed  a  mist,  and  in  mingled  es- 
sence they  held  the  parks  and  streets  in  conquest.  It 
was  early  afternoon,  and  Battersby  had  gone  out  to 
see  some  friends — as  he  said,  seeming  unduly  awkward 
and  mysterious  about  so  simple  a  social  function.  So 
Harry  had  journeyed  out  too,  to  while  away  the  hours 
before  eight  o'clock,  when  he  was  due  at  the  Morning 
News  office. 

Like  a  marshalled  regiment  of  impossible  monsters 
loomed  the  houses  through  the  mist,  flanking  each 
street.  It  seemed  to  Harry  that  he  crept  microscopi- 
cally along  the  ridge  of  a  high  canyon,  a  russet  shade 
of  light  making  the  arc  of  heaven  immediately  above 
his  head  brighter  than  the  flanking  walls  about  him. 
There  were  few  abroad  In  the  streets.  Now  and  then, 
as  the  fog  swept  by,  through  the  windows  of  the  som- 
bre houses  could  be  seen  the  reflections  of  cheerful  fires 
leaping  about  the  walls  of  the  room.  Hearth-clusters 
of  congregating  mortals  could  be  Imagined,  with  such 
occupations  as  Imagination  could  conjure  for  them. 
To  say  that  Harry  had  envied  them  would  be  to  re- 
veal psychological  mysteries.  Indeed,  truly,  envy  kin- 
dled in  him  as  fancy  painted  for  him  pictures  of  warmth 
and  hearth-side  joy.  Yet  he  was  not  altogether  free 
of  that  sensuousness,  morbidity  perchance,  that  luxuri- 
ates in  Imaginary  scenes  of  joy  that  to  share  would  be 
to  devastate.  A  certain  inherent  grain  of  melancholy 
was  quickened.  A  cheerful  hearth  beckoned  him  at 
Battersby's  flat.  Yet  he  chose  to  roam  in  envy  of 
imagined  felicity. 

Thus  he  wandered  into  St.  James's  Park,  whence 
the  fog  had  fled,  leaving  only  its  tearful  silver  mist. 
The  cry  of  strange  water-fowl  seemed  peculiarly  con- 


Cogitations  229 

sonant  with  his  mind  in  Its  piercing  melancholy.  He 
noticed  a  crust  of  ice  on  the  waters;  and  looked 
through  the  mist  vainly  to  discover  the  quaint  denizens 
of  the  further  islands.  Thus  he  took  his  way  Into  the 
Green  Park,  where  for  the  first  time  the  hum  of  the 
mother-city's  life  broke  on  his  ears,  like  a  distant  noise 
of  breakers  borne  down  a  wind. 

In  among  the  dripping  trees  he  went,  in  fanciful 
melancholy.  He  little  knew  It,  but  the  full  force  of 
melancholy  had  been  awakened  in  him;  firstly  by  brood- 
ing in  loneliness  over  the  conjured  beauty  of  Rose, 
and  secondly  by  the  continual  thwartlngs  he  had  lately 
known.  This  had  aroused  a  fine  force  of  Imaginative 
emotion  In  him;  had  called  it  out  from  Its  slumber  in 
the  remoter  depths  of  his  soul.  This  had  quickened 
his  intellect,  and  given  him  a  rare  depth  of  thought. 
It  had  also  quickened  his  sensuousness  of  nature,  and 
was,  subsequently,  to  set  snares  about  his  feet.  A  sub- 
tle instinct  for  the  luxurious,  and  thus  for  stimulating 
novelty  of  emotion,  was  being  stirred  into  activity,  giv- 
ing his  power  of  passion  a  dangerous  hue.  It  found 
vent  now  In  a  species  of  self-torture  that  brooded  con- 
tinually over  his  absent  love,  making  her  letters  serve 
for  him  as  wands  to  call  up  a  mighty  wave  of  rebellious 
emotion,  that  flowed  back  to  her  In  his  responding 
epistle  of  the  same  day.  He  conjured  heaven,  earth 
and  hades  to  sound  the  height,  breadth  and  depth  of 
what  she  was  to  him.  She  towered  out  through  the 
earth,  and  became  all  things  to  him.  Tempest  upon 
tempest  of  silent  yet  most  potent  emotion  the  thought 
of  her  waked  In  him.  He  dreamt  of  physical  union 
with  her  as  the  consummation  of  a  past  eternity,  and 
the  dating  of  a  new  eternity.  He  shook  angry  defi- 
ance at  the  ruinous  order  of  a  callous  universe  that 
held  them  apart,  and  would  not  aid  In  making  a  spirit- 


230  Broken  Arcs 

ual  union  a  physical  and  companionable  unity.  It 
was,  he  thought,  to  robe  eternity  In  the  Incongruous 
garments  of  time;  and  then  he  struck  the  eternal  mel- 
ancholy of  Poetry,  she  who  sings  In  circumstance  the 
things  that  transcend  circumstance.  He  who  stretches 
after  a  further  aurora  Is  apt,  at  length.  In  weariness. 
In  anger,  to  court  wild  sensation,  or  trample  down  the 
barriers  of  prohibition. 

Harry's  gloom  had  been  pierced  by  radiant  gleams, 
owing  to  the  expected  Interview  with  TImpklns.  And 
as  he  turned  his  steps  Into  Piccadilly,  to  make  his  way 
to  a  glorious  saloon  where  music  aided  the  digestion 
of  a  humble  meal,  the  prospect  quickened  the  hope  In 
him.  He  built  pictures  of  an  early  home  erected  by 
his  labours.  He  conjured  the  scenes  of  warmth  and 
felicity,  for  which  he  was  to  be  the  creative  magician. 
Yet  always  at  the  back  of  his  thought  there  was  the 
sceptical  expectation  of  evil. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  some  trepidation  and  excite- 
ment that  he  sent  his  name  up  to  the  mighty  TImpklns ; 
and  was  ushered  Into  a  large  waiting-room  to  await 
the  mighty  one's  pleasure.  Through  the  windows  of 
the  room,  chimneys  and  roofs  hung  about  him  in  the 
air,  irresponsibly  floating  glantesque  In  a  wet  mist 
pierced  by  distant  light.  In  the  room  there  was  an 
array  of  desks  covered  with  blotting-pads  and  "copy'* 
paper.  From  the  magnificent  frontages  of  the  various 
newspaper  offices  he  had  Imagined  a  regal  state,  a 
pomp  of  might  and  power,  as  marking  the  rooms  in 
which  the  world-stupendous  pronouncements  were 
penned,  from  which  they  rolled  forth  to  conquer  or 
devastate.  This  place  looked  like  an  untidy  school- 
room. Even  the  edges  of  the  blotters  were  marked 
with  inelegant  sketches  of  dubious  merit. 

He  switched  on  one  electric  light  whereby  to  read 


Cogitations  23 1 

in  the  pervading  gloom.  But  It  was  fitfully  he  read 
as  he  awaited  his  momentous  Interview.  At  least  half- 
an-hour  passed  before  he  heard  a  door  open  In  the 
farther  end  of  the  room.  Looking  up  he  saw  a  little 
man  limned  against  the  brightness  of  the  open  door- 
way. The  light  was  behind  him,  but  Harry  could  see 
that  he  was  buxom  of  girth,  short  of  stature,  thln- 
halred  as  to  scalp,  with  short,  fiercely-turned  mous- 
taches, and  that  he  wore  an  obsequious  monocle. 

*'Your  name's  DenzU?"  this  figure  demanded. 

Harry  acknowledged  the  truth  of  the  appellation. 

"Very  well.     I'll  see  you  presently." 

The  figure  had  disappeared,  the  door  had  closed, 
and  gloom  had  reigned  again,  and  Harry  was  left  per- 
plexed. Why  did  he  do  that?  he  thought.  For  a 
display  of  his  Importance,  I  suppose.  Harry  was  be- 
ginning to  discover  that  It  Is  a  favourite  jollity  with 
power,  however  dubiously  or  adventitiously  acquired, 
to  sport  with  weakness  with  fiendish  Intent  to  upcall 
fear,  as  a  cat  with  mice. 

Another  twenty  minutes  elapsed  before  a  flitting 
youth  came  to  Inform  him  that  Mr.  Timpkins  wished 
to  see  him. 

In  the  great  man's  presence  Harry  felt  a  nauseating 
contempt  for  him.  He  struck  his  quick  Instinct  as 
being  overweenlngly  vacuous.  Nevertheless,  he 
preened  his  feathers  to  please. 

*'So  you  think  you  could  help  us  with  our  leaders?" 

"Yes,  I  thought  so." 

"What  experience  have  you  had?" 

"Oh,  none!"  Harry  had  begun  to  fear  this  per- 
petual question. 

"I  see.  What  made  you  think  of  applying  here? 
Who  put  you  up  to  it?" 

Harry  scarcely  saw  the  bearing  of  this  inquisitorial 


232  Broken  Arcs 

search  Into  his  motives  and  meanings;  but  he  responded 
patiently — 

"Mr.  Battersby.     He's  on  the  Daily  Urgent/' 

"Why  didn't  Mr.  Battersby  apply  for  It  himself?*' 

"I  think  he's  pretty  comfortable  where  he  Is." 

"So  you  haven't  had  any  experience,  you  say?" 

"No." 

"I'm  afraid  you're  too  amateurish." 

Harry's  heart  fell.  He  could  well-nigh  have  wept. 
But  the  great  man  went  on,  surveying  him  critically: 

"Still,  I  might  give  you  a  trial,  to  see  how  you 
shape.     How  much  were  you  expecting  as  salary?" 

Harry  had  not  yet  learned  the  secret  of  rating  him- 
self highly,  owing  to  a  stubborn  faith  in  the  rectitude 
of  the  world.  He  therefore  stated  a  figure  far  less 
than  the  great  man  had  had  In  his  thought,  who  there- 
upon replied — 

"Oh,  no,  we  couldn't  afford  that;  not  for  an  ama- 
teur! It  could  only  be  a  trifle.  Indeed,  at  the  start 
it  could  only  be  a  mere  honorarium,  an  honorarium 
merely.  On  that  basis  I  might  be  able  to  arrange  It,  I 
think.  You  see,  you're  only  an  amateur."  Again  the 
critical  superiority  travelled  over  him. 

Harry's  heart  had  fallen.  The  fancies  of  an  early 
home,  a  happy  Rose  to  await  him  soon  at  his  own 
threshold,  faded  into  gloom.  He  knew  that  this  great 
man  could  only  advantage  an  Innumerable  host  of 
dim  shareholders,  for  none  of  whom  he  cared  a  twig; 
and  that  therefore  his  attitude  could  only  have  sprung 
from  an  Innate  and  inordinate  love  of  browbeating 
for  browbeating's  sake.  His  contempt  for  him  took 
a  bitter  turn.  Nevertheless,  this  was  a  beginning;  and 
he  was  in  no  position  to  neglect  beginnings.  There- 
fore he  listened  with  patience  as  the  great  man  told 
him  how  to  rule  the  world  through  the  medium  of 


Cogitations  233 

leader-writing.  And  presently  he  went  off  with  some 
statistics  just  up  in  proof  from  the  press-room,  with 
the  great  man's  somewhat  affected  accents  singing  in 
his  ears,  to  construct  the  cadence  of  two  hundred  om- 
nipotent words. 

When  this  was  done  he  bore  the  result  somewhat 
unceremoniously  into  the  inner  sanctum,  somewhat  to 
the  great  man's  surprise. 

"What!  Done  already?  Well,  leave  it  here,  and 
I'll  call  you  presently  about  it,"  he  said,  looking  up 
from  his  work. 

Harry  had  not  been  accustomed  to  treatment  that 
assumed  a  minion  in  him;  and  the  tone  irritated  him. 
He  went  out,  sick  at  heart,  and  toyed  with  a  paper. 
There  was  another  man  working  out  there  with  him, 
his  senior,  presumably,  in  priority  of  function  and  im- 
portance ;  but  one,  nevertheless,  that  looked  as  though 
he  had  been  through  the  process  with  such  admirable 
success  that  fearfulness  and  meekness  looked  askance 
in  every  feature  of  him.  A  quill-pen  lay  handy,  and 
Harry  tore  this  to  shreds  in  sheer  misery  of  soul. 
Somewhere  in  his  soul  weeping  was  done ;  but  his  eyes 
were  dry.  He  and  his  co-partner  in  gloom  had  not 
exchanged  a  word;  nor  did  they  now.  Outside  the 
fog  rose  to  greater  density,  lying  up  against  the 
window-pane. 

Presently  a  dim  voice  hailed  him  through  the  closed 
door.  He  went  in.  The  great  man  was  making  digs 
and  dashes  at  his  sonorous  English  with  a  large  blue 
pencil,  and  as  soon  as  Harry  appeared  began — 

"I  say,  this  won't  do,  Denzil.  It's  amateurish;  too 
frightfully  amateurish.  You'll  never  do  if  you  go  on 
like  this.  Besides,  it  wastes  my  time.  My  time's 
most  important.  Take  these  sentences:  *It  must  not 
be  too  easily  thought  that  the  matter  can  be  closed 


234  Broken  Arcs 

with  a  platitude.  The  question  is  too  far-reaching 
for  so  trite  a  settlement.  It  may  even  be  necessary 
to  suspend  judgment  until  truth  evolves  itself  out  of 
the  mass  of  conflicting  data.'  Now,  who  does  that 
hit?  We  want  to  hit.  Besides,  it's  not  journalism. 
It's  amateurish,  my  boy.  How  can  we  suspend  judg- 
ment while  the  other  side  is  hitting  away?  We've 
got  to  show  that  they've  no  foot-room  to  stand  on. 
Where  d'you  think  politics  would  be  if  we  had  to  wait 
while  truth  evolved  itself?  We've  got  to  live  mean- 
while— that's  on  its  lowest  plane.  No,  no;  it's  too 
frightfully  amateurish." 

"It  seems  to  me  a  very  fair  summing-up,  don't  you 
think?"  Harry  ventured  hesitantly. 

"We  don't  want  summings-up.  If  you  want  to  sum- 
up  the  situation,  write  a  letter  to  the  paper  doing  so. 
We  may  not  print  it,  still!  But  the  leader's  not  the 
place  for  It.     Now,  what  you  want  to  say  is " 

Here  followed  a  lengthy  peroration  on  the  subject 
under  several  heads;  followed  by  the  injunction  to  go 
and  "say  that  In  your  own  language."  Harry  went  off 
dejectedly,  and  attempted  to  do  so.  This  great  man 
seemed  to  him  much  like  a  pander  between  him  and 
falsehood,  and  he  seemed  to  delight  In  nothing  so 
much  as  to  enforce  the  cohabitals.  Harry's  dejected 
mind  saw  a  furtive  and  curious  likeness  between  this 
and  certain  episodes  of  his  school-days,  when  an  elder 
forced  a  younger  reluctant  comrade  to  deeds  of  de- 
pravity with  the  plea  that  therein  lay  the  test  of  man- 
liness and  knowledge.  Thus  he  succeeded  in  incor- 
porating Into  his  second  product  a  certain  unhealthy 
bitterness  that  gave  the  great  man  to  hope  for  him. 

Half-an-hour  after  midnight  Harry  might  have  been 
seen  standing  In  the  fog  opposite  the  looming  building 
surveying  It.     The  deeps  of  gloom  were  In  him.     He 


Cogitations  235 

endeavoured  to  raise  his  spirit  to  the  energy  of 
anathema,  but  he  was  not  able.  So  he  had  turned 
away,  to  find  his  way  homewards. 


Ill 

The  following  morning  Harry  was  up  before  Baf- 
tersby  to  see  how  his  contribution  to  world-politics 
looked  in  print.  He  had  shaken  off  his  gloom  of  the 
previous  night,  though  he  could  not  have  been  said  to 
have  joy  of  soul.  Whatever  of  gaiety  there  was,  how- 
ever, went  flickering  down  the  wind  as  his  eye  fell  on 
the  sheet  containing  his  mutilated  tilt  into  the  enemy's 
camp.  It  was  nearly  all  altered;  some  of  the  sentences 
seeming  to  have  earned  the  blue  pencil  out  of  a  purely 
perfunctory  spirit.  What  remained  of  him  stirred 
distaste  in  him,  as  having  been  conceived  in  an  un- 
healthy spirit.  He  thought  of  his  first  effort  with 
regret.  That,  thought  he,  he  would  gladly  have 
stood  parent  to,  to  the  end  of  time. 

When  Battersby  came  in,  he  was  full  of  inquiries  as 
to  how  Harry  had  fared.  Therefore  the  melancholy 
tale  was  retailed  to  him,  with  characteristic  reception. 

"My  dear  man,"  exclaimed  he,  "youVe  grumbling 
with  pea-soup  for  having  peas  in  it.  That's  the  craft. 
I  suppose  your  case  was  the  bit  worse  because  of  the 
man.  Timpklns  has  got  a  shocking  reputation.  IVe 
never  met  him,  thank  heaven !  but  I  hear  he  seems  to 
profess  a  notion  that  the  Lord  God  smiled  on  him 
when  born.  He  forgets  that  if  the  Deity  does  do  that 
kind  of  thing  it  generally  has  the  reverse  effect.  You 
didn't  like  him?" 

Harry  had  made  no  reply  for  a  moment.     When  He 


236  Broken  Arcs 

spoke  his  intonation  gave  his  words  a  peculiar  expres- 
sion. 

"There  are  some  men  whom  nobody  likes,  and  who 
wallow  in  It,  wallow  in  a  general  distaste  of  them- 
selves. TImpklns  is  one  of  them.  I  really  think  he 
expected  me  to  call  him  *sir.'  And  he  has  got  no 
capacity  either.  Look  at  his  leader!"  And  Harry 
proceeded  to  analyze  it,  displaying  such  an  extraor- 
dinary familiarity  with  It  that  It  was  quickly  obvious 
to  his  friend  that  a  bitter  examination  had  preceded 
his  entry. 

"Oh,  ay  I"  Battersby  replied.  "Looked  at  from 
that  standpoint  It  doesn't  bear  literary  examination. 
But,  bless  you!  it*s  a  good  workmanlike  sort  of  pro- 
ceeding." 

"Then  why  does  he  blame  my  workmanlike  pro- 
ceeding?" 

"Because  youVe  under  him." 

Harry  had  grunted.     Rebellion  was  rife  In  him. 

"Pull  your  socks  up,  Denzil,"  Battersby  had  broken 
In.  "You're  coltish.  But  the  breaking-in's  got  to  go 
forward.  See  that  stove  there!"  He  indicated  the 
anthracite  stove  that  stood  In  his  fireplace,  an  adoption 
of  his  to  Insure  warmth  on  his  late  returns  from  work. 

Harry  nodded  gloomily. 

"Well,  there's  a  tale  attaching  to  that.  The  man 
that  came  to  fix  that  saw  me  pegging  away  at  my  work, 
and  seemed  to  be  a  bit  interested.  Began  to  talk  of 
It,  shyly.  I  liked  him.  So  we  began  to  talk  together, 
and  I  soon  found  that  he  was  tolerably  familiar  with 
what  you  and  I  would  call  fairly  stiff  reading.  But  I 
noticed  that  most  of  it  seemed  to  be  on  the  art  side; 
and  I  found  out  that  he  had  done  a  bit  of  work  In  that 
direction.  He  was  quite  a  competent  judge,  too;  and 
seemed  to  have  pretty  clearly  worked  out  ideas  as  to 


Cogitations  237 

where  dead  colour  might  be  used,  and  where  not.  I 
tell  you,  he'd  have  been  quite  a  steadier  to  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites." 

"Did  you  ask  him  why  he  didn't  go  in  for  It?*' 

"Certainly!  His  answer  was  grim.  Said,  people 
didn't  want  him,  and  so  there  he  was,  fixing  anthracite 
stoves  I     It's  an  odd  world,  Denzll." 

This  was  scarcely  calculated  to  enliven  Harry's  al- 
ready depressed  spirits.     He  ejaculated — 

"Horrible !  You  know  those  lines  of  Wordsworth 
— I  can't  recall  them  completely — I've  a  shocking 
memory  for  poetry.  It's  In  that  supreme  ode,  and 
talks  of  the  youth  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
travels,  and  *by  the  vision  splendid  is  on  his  way  at- 
tended.' You  know.  Well,  these  are  the  lines  I  was 
thinking  of — 

'  At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away. 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day.* 

That's  true  enough  as  a  natural  process,  without  a  gen- 
eral conspiracy  to  beat  It  out  of  a  man.  To  think  of 
the  eternally  true  being  crushed  out  of  a  man  by  sor- 
did barter  and  exchange  Is  horrible." 

Harry  spoke  with  considerable  emotion.  He  seemed 
to  be  fearing  the  same  process  for  himself.  Battersby 
responded,  more  pensively  than  was  his  wont — 

"Looked  at  from  that  side,  It's  tragic!  Looked  at 
from  the  other  side,  It's  comedy.  I  like  looking  for 
the  comedy.  Modern  times  don't  like  tragedy.  I 
don't,  anyway." 

"It's  no  use  looking  for  comedy  illegitimately,  Bat- 
tersby. You  wouldn't  think  much  of  the  man  who 
found  comedy  beside  a  death-bed.  Your  reply  would 
be  that  the  comedy  In  a  scene  like  that  would  not  be  In 


238  Broken  Arcs 

the  occasion  but  in  a  coarse  mind.  Similarly  there's 
no  comedy  in  the  death  of  a  soul/' 

Battersby  looked  quizzically  and  interestedly  at 
Harry,  and  then  spoke  whimsically — 

"That's  odd !     That's  what  he  said." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Harry  somewhat  list- 
lessly. 

"Why,  I  said  to  him  that  if  he  had  lost  ideals  he  had 
at  any  rate  learned  wisdom.  He  looked  strangely  on 
me  at  that.  He  was  a  loosely-built  man,  with  large 
eyes  that  disturbed  one.  ^I've  thought  that  out  too, 
sir,'  he  said;  *and  the  logical  conclusion  of  it  is  the 
laudanum  bottle,  that's  the  only  alternative  wisdom  to 
ideals;  unless,  that  is,  you  have  money.'  ^Either  the 
laudanum  bottle  or  thievery,'  he  put  it." 

Battersby,  when  pensive,  looked  whimsical.  It  was 
as  though  he  never  let  humour  off  the  leash.  Harry, 
failing  to  see  the  connection  between  this  and  what  he 
had  said,  said  so. 

"No,  that  came  after,"  replied  Battersby,  as  whim- 
sically as  before.  "He  went  pottering  about  with  his 
stove;  and  then  he  said  suddenly:  *If  all  men  with 
ideals  were  to  be  resolved  to  slay  their  bodies  them- 
selves before  they'd  let  others  slay  their  souls,  Society 
would  be  reorganized  in  less  than  five  years.'  " 

"Good  heavens!"  broke  out  Harry.  "A  Club  of 
Suicides  I" 

"Yes,  and  he  had  got  text  for  it,  too.  *Better  lose 
your  life  than  lose  your  own  soul;'  you  know;  I  forget 
how  it  goes." 

"Who  and  where  is  this  man?"  Harry  said  sud- 
denly.    "I'd  like  to  find  him  out." 

"Don't  know.  Never  seen  him  since.  I  made  him 
stop  and  have  breakfast  with  me;  but  nothing  would 
make  him  revert  to  the  topic," 


Cogitations  239; 

Silence  fell  on  them.  Tragedy  brings  tHe  same  dis- 
quiet among  men  as  Truth.  Battersby  found  it  only 
possible  to  continue  in  the  same  atmosphere  by  whim- 
sical breathing.  Harry  took  it  as  his  natural  air.  Bat- 
tersby toyed  the  solemn  thing;  Harry  took  It  tenderly 
in  hand.  Battersby  turned  with  relief  to  his  daily 
paper.  A  daily  paper  to  Harry  had  be^n  a  profana- 
tion. 

As  Harry  sat  thinking  the  whole  matter  over  with 
knit  brows,  he  did  not  know  that  Battersby  was  re- 
garding him  intently.  The  thoughts  of  both  were  im- 
penetrable. 


IV 

It  was  some  weeks  after  this  that  Rose  and  Mr. 
Bradley  came  up  to  London.  "Thought  we*d  kill  two 
birds  with  one  stone,"  wrote  Mr.  Bradley.  "Rose 
has  a  strange  fancy  to  see  you,  and,  as  for  myself,  IVe 
got  to  be  seeing  a  doctor.  This  winter  is  perishing 
me."  Harry  had  written  Informing  them  of  his  ap- 
pointment at  the  Morning  News,  and  both  Mr.  Brad- 
ley and  Rose  had  noticed  that  his  letter  had  not  shown 
the  elation  that  might  have  been  expected.  Indeed, 
his  letters  had  been  so  gloomy  and  depressed  as  to 
agitate  Rose.  Though  she  had  had  a  sore  enough" 
trial  of  her  own,  she  did  not  know  that  most  terrible 
of  soul-wearying  experiences  that  is  spoken  of  blithely 
as  "making  a  living."  Hers  had  been  deep,  sharp, 
cataclysmic.  Harry  had  set  his  feet  for  the  first  time 
on  what  is  to  many  the  everlasting  treadmill  till  they 
drop  foredone  Into  the  grave. 

Harry  had  taken  a  room  near  his  friend,  and  It  was 
therefore  as  one  who  had  begun  to  strike  for  himself 


240  Broken  Arcs 

that  he  had  expected  them.  Yet,  though  his  external 
aspect  was  this,  he  always  had  the  devastating  feeling 
within  him  that  his  tenure  at  the  Morning  News  was 
a  most  insecure  matter.  He  did  not  know  whether 
this  was  a  right  Instinct  of  his,  judging  swiftly  a  certain 
misfit  that  could  not  by  any  possibility  long  continue, 
or  whether  it  arose  from  the  love  Mr.  Timpkins  had 
of  harrowing  him  by  spinning  him  continually  over  the 
pit  of  a  possible  dismissal  for  incompetency.  How- 
ever it  arose,  it  harried  all  peace  of  soul  from  out 
him. 

All  this  was  apparent  in  his  letters  to  Rose.  Her 
quick  instinct  caught  the  mood  in  which  the  words  had 
been  written,  and  yearned  for  him.  Whatever  there 
had  seemed  distasteful  to  her  in  the  fact  that  Harry 
had  won  higher  heights  than  she  in  his  sacrifice,  was 
gone  now.  Her  one  thought  was  of  infinite  yearning 
for  him  who  too  evidently  was  withholding  from  her 
some  of  the  deep  depression  that  weighed  him 
down. 

Thus,  when  at  length  the  day  arrived  when  she  and 
Mr.  Bradley  sped  to  London,  her  emotion  stretched 
wide  to  make  shelter  for  his  gloom.  And  he,  as  he 
awaited  her,  striding  up  and  down  the  platform  of  a 
dismal  station,  looked  for  her  as  might  a  prisoner  hun- 
grily expect  the  one  ray  that  lights  his  cell  for  a  bright 
moment  daily. 

Mr.  Bradley  was  not  of  those  who  in  age  forget  a 
distant  youth  that  had  once  befallen  them.  Therefore 
he  sped  first  out  of  the  carriage,  and  having  shaken 
Harry  by  the  hand,  and  informed  him  that  Rose 
waited  in  the  carriage  for  him,  turned  quickly  down  the 
length  of  the  train  for  the  luggage. 

"Harry!" 

"Rose,  oh.  Rose!" 


Cogitations  241 

She  insisted  he  looked  thinner,  he  insisted  that  she 
looked  lovelier  than  ever.  Then  she  told  him,  what 
she  had  omitted  to  mention  in  her  letters,  that  it  was 
likely  they  would  be  compelled  to  leave  Brokenfield, 
that  his  father  had  succeeded  in  so  focussing  the  fierce 
light  of  public  attention  upon  them  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  them  to  abide  there  in  comfort. 

"He  wanted  your  address.** 

"Which,  of  course,  you  didn't  give." 

"No,  but  he  has  had  one  or  two  very  stormy  inter- 
views with  father  which  have  very  much  upset  him.** 

"Why  does  he  do  it?  He  knows  that  that  is  not 
the  way  to  get  at  me.'* 

"Well,  father  told  him  he  would  be  seeing  you.  I 
rather  think  he  has  a  message  to  give  you.** 

"Now  then,  you  two  doves  !'*  called  a  soft  voice  into 
the  carriage.  "They'll  be  shunting  this  train  in  a  min- 
ute or  two.  We're  all  ready,  cab  and  all.  Harry,  I 
want  a  favour  from  you." 

"What  Is  it,  Mr.  Bradley?" 

"Come  and  stop  at  our  hotel  with  us  !*' 

"But '* 

"As  my  guest.** 

Harry  looked  at  the  firm,  kindly  face. 

"Very  well!  I  will!"  said  he. 

Some  days  thereafter  Mr.  Bradley  announced  that 
the  doctor's  pronouncement  was  that  he  should  pitch 
a  lengthy,  if  not  final,  sojourn  on  the  south  coast,  that 
the  said  physician  had  gone  so  far  indeed  as  to  choose 
WInmouth  in  the  far  south-west  of  Hampshire,  which 
injunction  he,  Mr.  Bradley,  being  a  law-abiding  man, 
and  one  who  had  a  profound  respect  for  flunkeys 
whether  they  brandished  medicine  bottles  or  blud- 
geons, intended  to  obey  to  the  last  point  of  the  order. 
Indeed,  instead  of  returning  to  Brokenfield  it  was  his 


242  Broken  Arcs 

proposal  to  go  forthwith  to  WInmouth  to  make  the 
necessary  choice  of  a  residence. 

He  had  not  spoken  to  Harry  of  Dr.  Denzll,  nor  had 
hinted  at  any  message  from  him.  But  now  that  he 
spoke  in  this  strain  Harry's  mind  immediately  wove 
this  into  the  general  texture.  His  glance  travelled 
quickly  over  to  Rose,  to  meet  hers  half-way  in  intelli- 
gent exchange  of  thought. 

Seeing  this,  Mr.  Bradley  judged  that  communica- 
tions touching  his  message  had  passed,  and  after  lunch 
spoke  with  Harry. 

"Your  father  asked  me  to  bear  you  a  message, 
Harry,"  said  he. 

*Tes?" 

**0r  rather,  to  be  more  accurate,  to  bear  you  an 
offer."  Mr.  Bradley's  glance  was  fixed  searchingly 
on  Harry. 

"Yes,"  Harry  repeated. 

"He  says  if  you'll  return  to  him,  apologize  for  your 
rudeness  in  leaving  him,  and  give  up  all  pledges  with 
Rose,  that  he'll  settle  five  hundred  a  year  on  you,  and 
give  you  the  choice  of  your  career.  Or,  failing  that, 
if  you  will  return  to  him,  and  promise  not  to  see  Rose 
until  by  your  own  efforts  you  can  afford  to  marry  her, 
he  will  see  you  through  your  necessary  expenses  in 
reading  for  the  Bar." 

"Which  means  that  he  is  relying  on  my  cooling  off 
'Rose  in  the  meantime." 

"It  seems  to  bear  that  interpretation." 

"I  think  Rose  Is  worth  too  much  to  me  for  the 
risk,"  Harry  said  doggedly. 

"It's  a  fair  offer,"  said  Mr.  Bradley. 

Harry  saw  that  Mr.  Bradley  was  in  a  strange  and 
difficult  position,  and  that  it  behoved  him  to  be  judicial 
when  he  least  wished  to  be. 


Cogitations  24  J 

"It*s  not  worth  the  present  grief  it  would  mean  to 
me,"  he  said. 

"Don*t  you  think  your  love  would  last?'*  said  Mr. 
Bradley.  "It's  an  admirable  test,  you  know,  for 
some." 

Harry  thought  that  Mr.  Bradley  had  been  strangely 
searching  with  him  since  his  engagement  with  Rose. 
He  was  so  now.  Yet  he  forebore  It.  Indeed,  it  had 
curiously  the  effect  of  a  tonic  on  him.  But  he  knew 
that  this  was  only  so  when  he  opened  his  soul  frankly 
and  cut  falsehood  cleanly  out  from  him;  falsehood, 
with  her  sister  hypocrisy.  Instinctively  he  felt  that 
so  soon  as  he  permitted  this  brood  to  take  possession 
of  him,  the  keen  knife  would  become  a  thing  of  tor- 
ture. 

*'It  might  not,"  he  said.  **I  don't  see  why  one 
should  take  unnecessary  risks  with  love.  It  always 
starts  with  an  ecstasy,  and  works  later,  with  fair  wis- 
dom on  the  part  of  the  lovers,  into  deeper  and  wider 
channels.  To  arrest  it  at  its  outset,  and  hold  up  its 
course  for  a  matter  of  years — why.  It's  only  the  phleg- 
matic that  can  do  that,  and  the  phlegmatic  don't  love ; 
theirs  is  only  a  deliberation  of  sexual  choice.  Don't 
you  think  so  yourself,  Mr.  Bradley?" 

"I  think  there's  much  in  what  you  say." 

*'What  was  his  other  alternative?" 

"He  said  he'd  give  you  to  the  end  of  this 
month,  and  then  he'd  cut  you  off,  lock,  stock  and 
barrel." 

"He's  threatening  what  I  took  for  granted  as  a  fact 
already  accomplished,"  said  Harry.  "But  what  are 
you  so  strange  about,  Mr.  Bradley?"  he  added. 

"Don't  think  me  discouraging,  Harry,"  Mr.  Brad- 
ley replied.  "For  one  thing  I'm  in  a  very  awkward 
position.     It's  far  from  my  intention  to  wish  to  appear 


244  Broken  Arcs 

to  win  you  for  Rose.  I'm  not  one  that  heeds  a  great 
deal  what  others  say,  though  I  did  once;  but  that  has 
been  said,  and  Is  partly  the  reason  why  I  wish  to  leave 
Brokenfield.  Also,  I  doubt  if  you  quite  realize  the 
task  youVe  taken  on/'  He  had  Harry's  letters  in 
mind. 

*'I  doubt  it  too,"  said  Harry  valiantly.  "Perhaps 
It's  as  well  I  don't." 

That  very  matter  was  the  subject  of  earnest  conver- 
sation the  following  day  between  Harry  and  Rose. 
She  was  deeply  perturbed  at  his  despondency.  Truth 
to  tell,  despondency  had  largely  left  him  since  their 
arrival.  He  had  the  faculty  (no  rare  gift,  be  it 
noted,  among  the  annals  of  men)  of  throwing  off 
gloom  to  share  to  the  full  what  of  variety  was  offered 
him  as  joy.  It  was  to  him  the  stimulant  of  change, 
apart  from  the  deep  felicity  that  came  always  to  him 
with  the  presence  of  Rose.  Yet  she  had  noticed  that 
even  his  boyish  exultancy  was  not  the  high-born  irre- 
sponsibility that  she  had  known  In  him  only  a  few 
months  back.  That  his  joy  was  something  maturer 
might  even  have  been  to  her  a  theme  of  sorrow,  for 
women  love  not  change,  be  it  for  better  or  worse.  But 
that  it  was  Interpenetrated  with  bitterness  and  morbid- 
ity, fear  of  the  unknown,  indeed,  at  times — was  a  sub- 
ject of  anxious  perplexity  to  her.  She  attributed  it  to 
his  work,  for  she  noticed  that  always  after  reading  his 
paper  in  the  morning  he  was  short  of  speech  and  ab- 
stracted of  manner. 

*'Is  it  that  wretched  man,  Timpkins,  again?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh,  well,  my  dear  one,  we  must  take  the  rough 
with  the  smooth."  Harry  spoke  with  forced  cheer- 
fulness. 

"Is  he  very  horrid,  dear?"  she  asked.     Their  hands 


Cogitations  245; 

had  found  each  other,  and  she  caressed  his  in  both 
hers. 

"Well,  It's  scarcely  necessary,"  he  said,  "for  any 
man  to  treat  another  as  though  he  were  dirt  beneath 
his  feet.  Or  if  he  wishes  to  pander  to  his  plebeian 
soul  by  that  kind  of  thing,  why  should  he  cut  my  stuff 
about?  Why  can't  I  have  my  say  as  well  as  he?" 
Harry  pointed  to  the  dishevelled  paper.  He  did  not, 
however,  make  any  reference  to  his  deeper-seated 
cause  of  gloom,  that  he  was  nightly  made  aware  that 
his  work  was  "amateurish,"  nightly  told  by  the  great 
man  that  there  were  great  doubts  if  his  work  would 
ever  really  do,  being  dandled  thus  over  the  fear  of 
failure. 

"Never  mind,  dear,  I'm  sure  you'll  get  on,  I  know 
you  will.  You're  better  than  he  by  far,  because  you 
wouldn't  act  like  that." 

He  looked  in  her  eyes,  and  read  conviction  there. 

"Thank  you,  dear,  for  that  word,"  said  he. 

The  following  day  was  to  be  the  last  that  Mr.  Brad- 
ley and  Rose  were  to  have  before  their  departure  for 
Winmouth,  so  Battersby  came  over  to  lunch  with  them, 
and  Harry  had  the  additional  encouragement,  for  en- 
couragement it  was,  of  receiving  his  admiring  felicita- 
tions. 


Spring  came,  with  showers  of  white  blossom,  sprays 
of  green  bud,  soft  airs  and  blue  skies.  Nothing 
doubting,  birds  broke  to  song.  Not  theirs  was  it  to 
be  daunted  by  the  showers  with  which  she  came,  even 
though  they  stung  with  hail  the  youngling  shoots,  or 
bit  the  morning  airs  with  frost.     Well  knew  they  that 


246  Broken  Arcs 

Spring  had  come,  and  were  not  Irked  with  doubt  by 
such  things.  Well  they  knew  that  her  ways  had  lain 
through  the  wilds  of  March,  and  that  there  yet  clung 
about  her  garments  the  memory  of  the  bitter  road  she 
trod.  The  pageant  of  Nature's  green  leaf-elves  know- 
ing their  Queen  was  come,  broke  off  their  gummy 
wrappings  and  hung  out  a  festal  array  as  triumphal 
trappings  for  her. 

So  Spring  came.  And  so  Spring  nigh  had  gone, 
melting  her  crystal  charms  In  the  maturer  lap  of  Sum- 
mer, when  Harry  might  have  been  seen  winding  his 
way  through  the  streets  of  Chelsea.  The  morning 
was  blithe  and  gay.  The  choice  exhilaration  of  Spring 
was  not  in  the  air.  One  felt  already  the  more  sensu- 
ous warmth  of  later  days.  He  made  his  way  to  Bat- 
tersby's  flat,  and  hearing  that  his  friend  was  not  yet 
up,  said  he  would  await  him. 

It  was  not  long  before  Battersby  made  his  appear- 
ance. 

''Hullo,  Denzill"  came. his  hail.  "Nothing  the 
matter,  I  hope,"  he  added,  noting  Harry's  dejected 
mien. 

"Matter?  No.  Not  If  the  arrival  of  the  expected 
is  any  matter."  Harry  spoke  with  pronounced  bitter- 
ness. 

"That's  it,  be  gnomic.  You  always  know  that  a 
man  has  been  hard  hit  If  he's  gnomic.  I  grant  you  it's 
the  best  way  out  of  being  tearful.  But  what  Is  It? 
Got  a  rise?" 

"Yes,"  said  Harry,  somewhat  grimly;  "right  out  of 
the  place!" 

"No!" 

"Yes,  I  say." 

"Well,  that's  what  you  call  beef  overdone,  ain't 
it?"     Battersby   stood   over   the   smitten    hero   with 


Cogitations  247 

puckered  face.  "You'll  have  to  come  back  here  again, 
that's  all!" 

Harry  looked  up.  The  moisture  in  his  eyes  said 
that  at  least  something  of  his  bitterness  had  turned 
to  a  healthier  emotion. 

**I  say,  Battersby,  It's  really  awfully  good  of  you. 
And  it's  the  first  thing  you  thought  of !  You  convince 
me  that  there's  some  good  in  the  world." 

"If  I  cause  you  to  amend  a  pessimist's  philosophy 
I've  done  some  good  anyway.  I  dare  say  six  years  of 
political  writing  haven't  accomplished  so  much.  The 
great  Timpkins,  I  suppose?"  he  queried. 

"Yes,  curse  him!" 

"Tut,  tut!" 

"I  think  it,  and  I  say  it." 

"Shouldn't  think  it,  then.  But  come!  let's  have 
the  yarn !  It  eases  the  soul  to  give  it  out.  Had  any 
breakfast?" 

"Yes.  No,  I  didn't.  Did  I,  though?  I  don't 
know  really,  I  must  have  had  something."  Harry 
looked  confused. 

"Bad  as  that,  is  it?  Well,  you'd  better  keep  me  com- 
pany at  all  events." 

The  breakfast  was  a  quiet  matter.  Battersby  was 
a  man  of  some  considerable  sagacity,  as  his  philosophy 
of  life  denoted;  to  It  he  added  the  instinct  of  kindli- 
ness. So  he  said  nothing  to  Harry  while  the  break- 
fast was  in  process,  but  peacefully  perused  his  paper. 
He  refrained  even  from  sympathetic  comment.  He 
felt  that  Harry  was  so  surcharged  with  emotion  that  a 
mere  grip  of  the  arm  would  have  caused  it  to  brim 
over.  And  though  he  was  himself  temperamentally 
the  last  remove  from  a  possible  tearful  display,  his 
placid  acceptance  of  human  nature  made  him  aware 
that,  far  from  such  displays  being  unmanly,  they  oft- 


248  Broken  Arcs 

times  denote  a  greatness  of  character,  a  generosity  of 
emotion,  most  essentially  manly.  Such  he  felt  Harry's 
to  be.  And  thus  he  perceived  that  Harry's  disap- 
pointment had  dealt  him  a  ruinous  blow  that  shook 
through  to  his  Inmost  depth  of  soul.  The  more  so, 
since  It  had  come  after  all  these  weeks  of  chafing  In 
the  course  of  his  work.  More,  his  receptivity  of  dis- 
position brought  another  fact  home  to  him:  to  wit, 
that  Harry  had  failed  through  his  own  nobility,  that 
a  certain  touch  of  baseness  and  sordldness  would  have 
saved  him.  This  made  his  perceptive  regard  of  Harry 
a  matter  of  respect. 

Breakfast  over,  he  flung  his  paper  aside  carelessly, 
and  said — 

"Well,  old  chap,  what  about  It?" 

Harry  felt  more  In  the  mood  that  permitted  discus- 
sion of  the  tender  subject. 

''Labour  was  the  rock  we  split  on,''  he  said.  "Not 
that  any  rock  would  not  have  done.  Fact  Is,  I  think 
he  was  looking  for  rocks.  He  gave  me  my  papers 
and  general  data,  and  I  wrote,  what  I  would  say  to 
the  end  of  time  to  be,  a  clearly  reasoned  three  hundred 
words  on  It.  From  the  data  before  me  there  was  only 
one  conclusion,  and  It  was  the  one  thing  I  stated.  The 
way  he  dismissed  it  made  my  blood  boil " 

"A  common  experience  with  Timpklns'  Interlocutors, 
I  believe,"  Interpolated  Battersby. 

"Confound  him,  yes.  Then  he  told  me  what  he 
wished  to  have  said,  and  I  just  looked  at  him.  Tou 
don't  agree  with  It,'  he  said.  'It  Isn't  consonant  with 
the  facts,'  I  said.  Then  we  had  an  argument,  and  I 
suppose  I  made  a  mistake  in  beating  him." 

"Oh,  Denzill  you  Ineffable  simpleton!" 

"Well,  it  really  wasn't  I  that  beat  him  so  much  as 
the  data  he  himself  put  before  me.     He  just  looked  at 


Cogitations  249 

me  and  said,  *I  don't  care  a  bit  about  that,  the  policy 
of  the  paper  Is  the  policy  of  the  paper;  you  write  It  as 
I  tell  you.'  I  went  away,  and  to  my  shame  I  say  I 
genuinely  did  my  best.  Just  as  I  was  going  off  he  said 
it  wouldn't  be  necessary  for  me  to  come  again,  but 
that  I  could  take  my  cheque  to  the  end  of  the  week  as 
arranged." 

Battersby  surveyed  the  fallen  hero,  and  hummed  a 
graceful  tune.     When  he  spoke,  he  spoke  whimsically. 

"The  world  is  divided  into  three  great  classes," 
said  he;  "rising  in  order  of  nobility,  falling  In  degree 
of  success,  the  Adapted,  the  Adaptable  and  the  In- 
tractable. Timpkins  belongs  to  the  first,  and  so  also, 
by  the  way,  did  Charles  Peace.  They  were  shaped 
in  their  mothers'  wombs  to  do  whatever  life  brought 
them  to  do,  with  perfect  enthusiasm,  utmost  abandon, 
ability  even,  without  any  regard  to  verities  or  morali- 
ties. If  they're  noble  it's  by  the  supreme  accident 
that  nobility  is  for  them  the  paying  business;  if  it 
meant  failure  they  would  avoid  it  like  a  hades.  They 
were  hewn  and  shaped  for  unction.  To  the  second 
degree  belongs  one  of  the  name  of  Hugh  Battersby. 
We  know  the  evil,  and  we  know  it  as  evil,  but  we  do 
it  as  well  as  we  can  because  poverty  is  a  dreadful  busi- 
ness. But,  Harry  Denzil,  you're  an  Intractable. 
You're  one  of  those  strange  creatures  that  stand  or  fall 
by  Eternity.  It's  your  only  justification,  even  though 
you  deride  eternity  of  existence — which  you  don't,  by 
the  way,  do  you?  I  envy  you  your  eternal  felicity;  I 
envy  Timpkins  and  such  criminals  their  mundane  suc- 
cess ;  but  as  for  me  and  my  house,  we  are  neither  fish 
nor  fowl." 

Harry  had  been  gazing  at  Battersby  as  he  delivered 
this  peroration,  though,  truth  to  tell,  he  had  paid  no 
great  heed  to  it.     When  he  spoke  it  was  with  the  tone 


250  Broken  Arcs 

of  one  that  had  braced  his  belt  up  another  two  holes. 
There  was  a  doggedness  about  It,  a  fierceness  of  deter- 
mination, that  boded  the  Issue  of  conflict. 

"Battersby,  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"All  that  I  have  Is  yours — metaphorically  speak- 
ing." 

"No,  I'm  in  earnest.     I  have  a  scheme." 

"As  I  say,  all  that  I  have  Is  yours  In  metaphor." 

"I  want  you  to  help  me  draw  up  a  list  of  all  the 
editors  In  London,  and  I'll  see  each  one  personally 
whether  they  will  or  no.  It's  a  fight  between  them 
and  me." 

"May  I  recommend  one  concession  you  make  to  me 
and  my  house?  It's  a  lamentable  thing  about  human 
nature,  that  has  received  Its  final  expression  of  aslnln- 
Ity  In  the  English  character,  that  people  mistrust  their 
own  judgments,  however  sure  they  seem.  Now  no- 
body likes  TImpklns,  but  even  the  man  that  despised 
him  would  value  you  with  a  reference  from  him,  and 
turn  you  out  without.     Therefore  you'll  have  to  bluff." 

Harry  looked  at  him  with  a  flickering  smile.  He 
had  not  been  Immune  from  this  subtle  practice. 

"Life's  all  bluff.  Men  with  reputations  bluff  on 
their  reputations.  So  why  the  deuce  shouldn't  you 
bluff  without  a  reputation?  Make  a  kind  of  modest 
half-reference  to  your  experience ;  don't  overdo  It,  for 
the  Lord's  sake.  You  see,  you've  broken  your  con- 
tinuity, which  Is  disastrous  In  this  effete  generation." 

Together  they  drew  out  a  list,  and  forthwith  Harry 
started  out  on  his  campaign.  It  was  with  dogged  de- 
termination he  started,  but  It  was  with  distinctly  chilled 
spirit  he  returned  at  night.  He  wrote  to  Rose.  He 
wrote  also  to  Mr.  Bradley.  Hesitation  was  In  both 
letters,  for  his  sensitive,  supersensitive,  spirit  shrank 
from  being  considered  a  failure.     His  confidence  In 


Cogitations  251 

himself  as  having  something  to  deliver  was  unshaken. 
His  confidence  in  himself  as  being  well  able  to  deliver 
it  was  also  unshaken.  But  he  saw  the  world  ranged 
in  hostility  against  him.  He  saw  too,  that  if  he  won 
success,  it  lay  the  other  side  of  conflict.  He  longed 
to  be  able  to  withdraw  himself  from  all  until  he  had 
achieved  success. 

But,  beyond  a  few  books  to  review,  it  was  little  of 
success  that  met  him  during  the  next  weeks,  and  he 
began  to  wear  a  furtive  grimness. 

One  Saturday  night,  as  Battersby  was  sitting  smok- 
ing and  reading,  Harry  came  in.  His  face  was  flushed, 
and  his  manner  fiercely  gay. 

"Hullo,  Battersby!"  he  called  out.  "Reading — 
Kings  of  Portugal^ 

Battersby  looked  up  at  his  friend. 

"Been  having  a  pick-me-up,  Denzil?"  he  asked 
quietly. 

"One  can't  have  all  kicks,  all  gloom.  Must  have  a 
bit  of  the  gay.  Must  take  It  adventitiously — If  not 
otherwise."  He  sat  himself  somewhat  unsteadily  in 
the  chair  opposite  Battersby. 

"It  has  its  merits,"  said  Battersby.  "Only  don't 
overdo  it,  my  dear  chap." 


VI 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Bradley  had  struck  his  encamp- 
ment at  Brokenfield  and  had  removed  to  WInmouth. 
The  news  of  his  going  had  come  round  to  Dr.  Denzil 
before  the  final  deed  was  accomplished,  sounding  in 
his  ears  with  fell  meaning.  For  It  was  his  last  con- 
nection with  Harry  that  was  thus  to  be  removed. 

He  had  received  Mr.  Bradley's  communication  from 


252  Broken  Arcs 

Harry  with  frozen  wrath.  Words  of  anger  were  de- 
nied him,  for  It  was  patent  to  his  good  sense  that  the 
man  before  him  was  one  who  had  carried  out  faith- 
fully, In  spirit  and  in  letter,  the  message  he  had  had  to 
deliver.  Moreover,  he  recognized  Harry's  accents  In 
the  words  of  the  reply  he  bore.  He  had  therefore 
asked  how  Harry  was  getting  on.  It  fitted  not  with 
Mr.  Bradley's  temperament  to  avoid  the  truth  of  a 
situation,  and  his  reply  had  accordingly  been  none  too 
cheerful.  Whatever  branch  of  olive  Dr.  Denzil  had 
come  to  bear  was  thereupon  quickly  hidden  away.  His 
scheme  of  tactic  knew  nothing  of  clemency  to  a  fallen 
opponent.  He  reserved  clemency  for  a  victorious  foe. 
His  Instinct  knew  how  to  gauge  accurately  a  coming 
ascendency,  and  he  would  then  wave  out  a  lofty  truce, 
thus  saving  himself  a  good  half  of  an  unavoidable  pen- 
alty. Which  thing  Is  a  rare  gift.  Its  present  effect 
was  to  make  him  withdraw  to  his  own  house  with  an 
inner  feeling  of  coming  triumph. 

Thus  his  last  avenue  of  approach  to  Harry  was 
severed,  and  Mr.  Bradley  set  up  his  new  abode  by  the 
sea. 

But  therewithal  there  came  a  new  element  Into 
'Rose's  life.  For  while  Mr,  Bradley  stood  In  the  eyes 
of  the  denizens  of  Brokenfield  with  decayed  saddlery 
hanging  about  him,  Winmouth  was  so  far  a  remove 
that  his  connection  with  the  hideous  social  enormity 
of  retail  (and  single-shop  retail!)  was  finally  severed. 
With  his  aloof  and  firm  manner  he  attracted  attention, 
and  was  sought  after.  Moreover,  the  daughter  he 
brought  with  him  was  exceeding  fair,  which,  while  a 
bloom  of  enticement  to  doughty  man,  Is  a  theme  of 
fluttering  curiosity  to  eager  women.  Thus  the  house- 
hold came  by  frequent  visitors.  And  thus  Rose  won 
for  herself  admirers. 


Cogitations  253 

There  was  one  especially,  who  sunned  himself  In 
a  comfortable  competency  and  frequented  the  cafes 
and  promenade  of  Winmouth.  Not  that  he  was  one 
of  those  in  whom  the  gusts  of  empty  passion  alternate 
with  vacuous  rumination.  In  truth,  a  somewhat  mas- 
terful soul  was  now  coincident  in  him  with  years  that 
marched  towards  maturity.  Travel  had  given  him 
breadth  of  a  certain  experience  and  independency  of 
disposition;  a  necessary  pride  had  been  furnished  by  a 
couple  of  tomes  that  stood  to  his  name  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  his  travel,  it  having  become  the  requisite  of  a 
nomadic  soul  to  take  the  world  into  its  confidence 
touching  the  awe  and  wonder  of  nature's  highways, 
with  photographic  auxiliaries.  A  doggedness  of  na- 
ture in  him  was  being  decayed  by  a  vegetating  exist- 
ence until  he  had  seen  Rose.  Interest  thereupon  had 
quickened  through  him,  bringing  vigour.  He  sur- 
veyed her  from  on  high  as  a  most  pleasing  figure. 

Mr.  Bradley  had  brushed  acquaintance  with  him  as 
they  had  sat  overlooking  the  rippling  Channel,  and 
had  been  interested  by  the  apt  examples  adduced  from 
remote  regions  of  the  earth  to  give  the  gay  scene  be- 
fore them  its  effective  contrast.  Conversation  had 
flowed  through  deepening  channels  of  interest.  The 
effective  fire,  sufficient  to  make  so  easy  an  episode  a 
matter  of  more  permanent  acquaintance,  had  been 
lacking,  however,  and  was  not  supplied  until  Rose 
floated  down  the  promenade  and  joined  them. 

The  stranger  had  then  revealed  himself  as  Mr. 
Bevis  Urquhart,  and  the  mutual  unveiling  of  identities 
had  led  gently  to  an  invitation  on  Mr.  Bradley's  part 
for  a  visit  to  be  paid.  Nor  had  the  stranger  allowed 
any  time  before  he  had  taken  advantage  of  the  proffer. 

Rose  easily  suffered  herself  to  be  regaled  by  one  so 
equipped  with  wide  information,  the  more  so  as  the 


254  Broken  Arcs 

informative  mind  was  accompanied  by  a  serene  blan- 
dishment of  manner.  She  heard  him  gladly.  Not  so 
Jim,  however.  Jim  fled  him  at  first  approach,  and 
never  could  be  induced  to  abide  his  company.  It  was 
evident  Jim  needed  the  touch  of  passion  in  character 
before  he  could  be  induced  to  give  his  confidence  or 
affection.  Perhaps,  too,  it  was  the  large  imperturba- 
bility of  Mr.  Bevis  Urquhart  that  awed  Jim.  Yet, 
whatever  it  was,  the  result  was  evident  enough,  and 
caused  no  small  degree  of  amusement  to  Mr.  Bradley. 
It  caused  Mr.  Urquhart,  however,  to  regard  the  child 
with  considerable  animosity. 

"Mother,"  he  asked  Rose  on  one  occasion,  "who  is 
that  man?" 

"Oh,  only  a  friend  that  calls  here,"  she  replied. 
"But,  Jim,  you  really  must  get  over  this  habit  of  tak- 
ing such  dislikes  to  people.  Don't  you  think  you  are 
getting  a  bit  too  old  for  that?" 

Jim  made  no  reply.  He  shunned  controversy,  as 
he  shunned  his  repugnances  among  human  kind.  He 
eyed  his  mother  solemnly.  Rose  had  it  not  in  her 
heart  to  chide  him.  She  knew,  too,  that  Jim  usually 
heeded  her  reproaches  in  silence  without,  however, 
markedly  altering  his  manner  of  procedure.  She  was 
the  more  tender  with  him  as  she  saw  in  him  her  own 
quick  sensitiveness.  Before  she  had  met  Harry  her 
flame  of  soul  had  learnt  to  burn  evenly,  steadily.  Harry 
had  fanned  it  to  new  fierceness  and  magnificence.  Not 
trusting  its  own  height  it  flickered  fearfully,  however, 
which  brought  back  upon  her  her  tender  sensitiveness. 
Instinctively,  therefore,  she  was  sympathetic  with  Jim. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  she  asked  him,  as  he 
still  eyed  her  solemnly. 

"Where's  father?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"In  London  working  for  a  living,"  she  replied.     It 


Cogitations  255 

was  the  first  time  he  had  made  reference  to  Harry's 
absence. 

^'Oughtn't  we  to  be  with  him?"  he  asked.  Never 
did  he  remove  his  gaze  from  off  her. 

"It  would  only  make  It  more  difficult  for  him.  I 
wish  we  could,"  she  sighed. 

"He  Is  my  father,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"Because  I  don't  like  the  big  man." 

"Well,  then,  you  needn't  see  him,  dear."  Jim's 
strange  manner  of  questioning  made  Mr.  Urquhart 
seem  to  Rose  a  most  ominous  figure. 

After  a  lengthy  silence  Jim  spoke  again. 

"Is  father  happy,  mother?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I  don't  think  he  is,  very,"  she  replied,  and  the 
sound  of  tears  was  in  her  voice.  It  was  the  previous 
morning  only  that  Rose  had  received  the  letter  from 
Harry  telling  her  of  his  disappointment  at  the  Morn- 
ing News,  and  that,  with  the  letter  of  this  selfsame 
day,  distressed  her  because  of  Its  bitterness  and  re- 
serve. 

"Are  you  happy,  mother?"  he  asked. 

"Not  very,  Jim,"  she  replied  quietly;  "but  you 
mustn't  ask  so  many  questions." 

"I  think  we  ought  to  be  with  father,"  said  Jim. 
"Other  fathers  aren't  left  alone  because  they  have  liv- 
ings to  get."  Jim  spoke  with  unwonted  force  and  con- 
viction. Evidently  this  matter  had  been  considerably 
churned  by  his  thought.     He  still  eyed  her  steadily. 

"Perhaps  we  should,  dear.  I  think  perhaps  you're 
very  largely  right.  But  don't  bother  your  mother  now, 
sonny."  It  was  to  her  uncanny  how  this  son  of  hers 
divined  her  thoughts.  So  surely  as  a  matter  weighed 
heavily  on  her  mind,  Jim  voiced  it  to  her,  deliberately 
choosing  occasions  when  Mr.  Bradley  was  not  nigh. 


256  Broken  Arcs 

If  her  soul  was  divided  in  conflict,  she  had  begun  al- 
most to  trust  Jim  to  speak  for  her  more  true  self. 

This  very  thought  had  agitated  her  deeply  lately. 
Remaining  here  in  peace  and  ease  while  he  who  was 
plighted  one  with  her  was  combating  distress  and  anx- 
iety, seemed  to  her  a  surviving  notion  of  an  ancient 
custom  that  merited  prompt  dismissal.  Her  place,  she 
thought,  was  beside  him.  She  with  him  could  go  forth 
to  earn  a  living,  and  they  could  give  each  other  mutual 
aid  and  encouragement.  If  she  were  equal  with  him, 
as  her  imperious  soul  demanded,  and  as  he  very  gladly 
assented,  then  she  should  take  with  him  the  buffets  and 
not  only  wait  for  a  later  ease.  So  she  had  reasoned. 
It  seemed  to  her,  too,  that  she  might  save  him  from 
much  of  that  unhealthiness  consequent  upon  buffets  and 
disappointments — such  an  unhealthiness  as  she  seemed 
to  detect  in  his  letters.  Now  that  Jim  spoke  it,  the 
thought  possessed  her  entirely.  She  had  been  forced 
to  faith  in  his  uncanny  divinations. 

Therefore  she  spoke  of  it  to  her  father,  but  Mr. 
Bradley  waved  it  aside  as  an  impossible  thought. 

"My  dear  girl,  it's  impossible,"  said  he.  "Taken 
even  from  his  standpoint,  see  how  it  would  add  to  his 
anxieties!  Poor  lad  I  he  has  his  fair  full  of  bother 
now  without  your  adding  to  it.'* 

Rose  looked  at  him.  She  was  not  perturbed  that 
even  his  resolute  thought  failed  to  grasp  what  to  her 
was  the  essential  factor  of  her  protested  equality  with 
Harry.  She  could  see  that  it  was  not  easy  for  a  mind 
not  young  to  be  quit  of  all  shackles  of  convention. 
Therefore  she  addressed  herself  briskly  to  his  thought. 

"Father,  don't  you  see  that,  if  I  wait  for  him  to  get 
past  the  rough  waters  for  me  to  join  him,  when  things 
are  easy  I  should  deserve  it  if  he  regarded  me  as  a 
chattel?" 


Cogitations  257 

"A  chattel,  Rose?'^ 

"Yes,  a  chattel!  A  chlnaware  chattel,  if  you  like, 
but  a  chattel  all  the  same.  That's  what  most  wives 
are,  and  they  deserve  it.  I  at  least  don't  want  to  de- 
serve It." 

**But — but  the  whole  thing's  so  preposterous."  Mr. 
Bradley  failed  entirely  to  grasp  her  point  of  view. 

"That's  what  his  father  said.  But  he  left  his  home 
for  me  all  the  same."  Rose  spoke  as  though  she  was 
being  thwarted  of  her  rights.  Pain  of  indignation 
was  in  her  voice. 

Mr.  Bradley  caught  it,  and  aroused  himself  to  grap- 
ple with  a  more  earnest  proposition  that  his  earlier 
thought  had  divined. 

"Rose,  my  dear  good  girl,"  said  he,  "what  could 
you  do?  He  won't  have  my  support,  and  I  admire 
him  for  it.  So  he  wouldn't  have  me  support  you  in 
his  household.  And  what  could  you  do  for  a  living? 
Think  over  it,  my  dear  girl!  I  like  your  thought, 
mind  you !  I  think  possibly  there's  some  occasion  for 
it.  There's  a  kind  of  bitterness  against  things  in 
Harry's  letters  I  don't  like.  But  he'll  get  over  it.  It's 
like  measles,  you  must  get  past  it,  and  it's  its  own  cure. 
But  I  don't  see  how  you're  going  to  help  him  byadding 
another  mouth  that  wants  filling.  Meanwhile,  what's 
to  become  of  Jim?" 

"Well,  if  I  can't  join  him,  oughtn't  we  all  to  go  up 
there?" 

She  spoke  this  tenderly,  for  while  she  was  daughter, 
a  loved  and  loving  daughter,  to  him  In  all  senses  that 
mattered,  her  sensitiveness  forbade  her  seeming  to  pre- 
sume on  it.  He  would  have  been  pained  to  think  it, 
and  did  not  even  guess  it. 

He  regarded  her  gravely. 

"No,"  said  he,  "let  him  fight  through  his  own  bat- 


258  Broken  Arcs 

ties.  ItUl  give  him  moral  muscle,  and  make  a  man  of 
him.  He^U  find  his  feet  later  on;  and  be  proud  of  the 
fact  that  no  one  helped  him  to  soften  the  battle  for 
him;* 

Thus  spoke  the  democrat,  and  the  man  who,  him- 
self, had  done  for  himself  what  life  brought  to  him  to 
be  done.  But  an  ancient  voice  sang  in  Rose*s  ear;  and 
its  tune  was:  *'  'TIs  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone;  let 
us  have  a  helpmeet  for  him.'*  Battle,  thought  she, 
can  but  bring  failure,  or  a  success  that  is  compounded 
of  brutality  of  thought,  unless  a  tender  hand  be  by  to 
dress  a  gotten  wound.  So  she  betook  herself  to  her 
grave  young  son. 

Fired  by  his  dogged  insistence  she  wrote  her  thought 
to  Harry;  and  it  was  evident  by  his  reply  that  he  had 
been  moved  inexpressibly,  but  yet  failed  to  understand. 
His  letter  exhaled  perfume  of  grateful  love.  It  moved 
in  cadences  that  told  how  deeply  he  had  been  stirred, 
and  it  was  with  tears  of  love  for  him  that  she  read  it. 
Nevertheless,  he  seemed  to  regard  her  proposal  as 
having  been  stated  as  proof  by  her  of  the  length  to 
which  her  love  was  content  to  go,  but  not  put  forward 
as  a  practical  proposition. 

This  perplexed  her,  and  she  spoke  no  further  of  it. 
She  thought  often,  nevertheless,  of  setting  off  to  join 
him.  An  immediate  marriage  and  a  joint  issue  with 
Fortune  was  what  she  desired;  though,  to  her,  the  rites 
of  marriage  seemed  perfunctory,  a  supererogatory  in- 
sistence on  a  manifest  fact.  Yet,  though  the  logic  of 
such  a  thing  was  clear  before  her,  she  saw,  too,  that  it 
might  mean  much  misunderstanding,  even  to  Harry, 
despite  the  fact  that  he  would  infallibly  have  received 
her  with  open  frankness.  Therefore  she  abstained; 
thenceforth  she  recessed  the  thought  In  her  mind. 

It  had   been   far,    far   better  had   she   translated 


Cogitations  259 

thought  to  action,  had  she  let  difficulties  resolve  them- 
selves, or  not  resolve  themselves,  but  only  obeyed  the 
one  urgent  dictate  of  her  reason!  But  no  one  may 
pierce  the  future  or  lift  the  curtain  from  off  pregnant 
events.  Later,  this  thought  rushed  back  on  her,  and 
its  very  accent  was  a  reproach.  She  had  not  erred 
(or,  rather,  clairvoyant  Jim  had  not  erred)  in  think- 
ing that  Harry  needed  now  most  especially  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  ancient  word:  "  'TIs  not  good  for  g>an  to 
be  alone;  let  us  have  a  helpmeet  for  him."  Even  the 
past  few  months  had  wrought  strange  disturbance  in 
Harry's  ardent  and  sensitive  mind.  And  it  was  yet 
to  be  more  so. 

Thus  the  weeks  translated  themselves  into  months. 
Meanwhile  Jim's  dislike  of  Mr.  Urquhart  had  grown 
on  Rose  too,  with  something  of  fear  beside.  He  was 
large  of  physical  build;  but  his  manner  was  positively 
enveloping.  He  knew  not  what  it  was  to  be  gainsaid. 
She  flourished  her  engagement  ring  beneath  his  eyes, 
with  little  effect.  He  installed  himself  as  her  com- 
panion; he  even  proposed  to  her  that  he  should  in- 
struct her  in  Italian. 

If  she  aired  herself  on  the  promenade,  he  would  sail 
up  to  her,  large  and  undeniable.  Aversion  to  him 
made  little  effect  on  him.  Her  wax  of  distaste  flat- 
tened itself  on  his  advancing  wall  of  graclousness.  He 
put  her  out  of  countenance  with  herself.  Once  she 
told  him  she  wished  to  be  alone.  He  Ignored  the  re- 
mark, and  blandly  gave  her  cullings  of  his  experiences 
in  China. 

On  one  occasion  she  sought  him  out  on  the  prome- 
nade, somewhat  to  his  surprise,  and  said  to  him — 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Urquhart !" 

He  smiled  graciously  upon  her. 

"Yes;  Mr.  Denzil's  coming  down  next  Friday;  and 


26o  Broken  Arcs 

I  should  like  to  introduce  you  to  him."  She  had 
nursed  this  plan  all  the  morning  as  being  an  admirable 
redoubt  to  thrust  him  farther  afield.  She  had  sought 
him  out  to  ensure  his  acquiescence. 

^'Delighted,  indeed,  I  assure  you.  When  did  you 
say  he  was  coming  down?" 

*'0n  Friday." 

*Tut,  tut  I     When  does  he  return?" 

*'0n  Tuesday  or  Wednesday." 

"Now  that's  very  annoying.  I  have  accepted  an 
Invitation  to  stay  with  some  friends  from  Thursday  to 
Thursday,  just  a  week.  Most  annoying,  isn't  it?  I 
shall  miss  your  friend." 

Rose's  heart  sank.  There  are  some  men  who  loom 
like  the  inevitable,  and  this  was  one  of  them.  More- 
over, this  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  spoken  of  her 
beloved  as  her  "friend,"  deliberately,  as  it  seemed  to 
her,  avoiding  the  term  of  deeper  kinship.  She  said 
nothing,  but  essayed  to  pass  him. 

"Are  you  going  up  this  way?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  But  I  wish  to  be  alone,  if  you  would  excuse 
me. 

"You  wouldn't  be  ungracious  to  me,  I'm  sure." 

"I  don't  know.  I  think  I  would,"  she  said  incis- 
ively. 

"I  remember  a  day  just  like  this  in  Tokyo.  Only 
the  air  there,  you  know,  Is  such  a  different  mat- 
ter  " 

The  voice  sung  on  beside  her.  In  bland  reminiscence. 
It  was  not  to  be  gainsaid,  and  Its  owner  was  Imperturb- 
able. She  walked  beside  him  with  a  sickening  sense 
of  revolt. 

Thus  the  summer  ripened. 


Cogitations  261 


VII 


Thus  the  summer  fled. 

Winter  had  well-nigh  come.  The  interim  had  seen 
a  deep — and,  be  it  confessed,  a  deeply  bitter — struggle 
on  Harry's  part  against  the  powers  that  be.  Historic 
examples  arise  to  prove  that  the  lot  of  the  free-lance 
journalist  is  not  the  happiest  of  possible  fortunes,  even 
with  an  established  reputation  to  aid  him.  To  Harry 
it  was  a  terrible  business.  Not  only  had  he  no  reputa- 
tion, but  he  had  a  conscience,  he  had  ideals.  He  had 
clung  obstinately  to  these,  refusing  to  huckster  them. 
Though  all  fell  away,  he  would  yet  serve  God,  said  he. 
Yet  Mammon  was  exceedingly  fair,  holding  in  her 
hand,  among  other  benefits,  a  speedy  union  with  Rose. 

Reviews  here,  and  articles  there,  brought  him  in  a 
precarious  livelihood.  His  greatest  combat  was 
against  those  who  were  technically  spoken  of  as  hav- 
ing "arrived";  which  was  a  euphemism  meaning  that 
whatever  they  chose  to  send  in  took  immediate  prec- 
edence of  his  work,  even  though,  as  only  too  fre- 
quently. It  was  of  far  lesser  merit.  This  won  the  deep- 
est bitterness  from  him;  and  the  resulting  recalci- 
trancy brought  him  Into  considerable  disfavour  with 
editors.  They  themselves  may  have  had  to  struggle 
in  the  past;  but  this  they  were  only  too  glad  to  forget. 
His  hand  was  against  a  mutual  admiration  society, 
with  the  public  to  pay  the  piper.  None  thought  of  the 
young  men,  the  men  with  new  thoughts,  the  men  with 
empty  pockets.  The  motto  of  editors  was:  "To  him 
that  hath  shall  be  given :  and  from  him  that  hath  not 
shall  be  taken  even  that  which  he  seemeth  to  have." 

He  said  once  to  Battersby — 

"D these  sleek  editors!     They  thwart  me  of 


262  Broken  Arcs 

my  crust  of  bread  to  add  an  extra  entree  to  a  rich 
man's  table." 

Battersby  had  replied — 

"  *Tis  the  way  of  the  world,  friend  Denzil.  Even 
your  professing  democratic  editors  are  incalculable 
snobs.  They  go  prostrate  before  names.  What's  the 
matter?     Things  in  a  bad  way  with  you?" 

It  had  won  more  than  mere  bitterness,  however.  It 
had  won  tears.  The  blithe  postponement  of  a  prom- 
ised article,  because,  forsooth!  some  person  who  had 
"arrived"  had  sent  in  an  imperious  message  accompa- 
nied by  one  of  his,  had  more  than  once  or  twice  meant 
to  Harry  an  awkward  visit  round  to  Battersby's  flat 
in  the  hope  of  a  meal.  Or,  failing  that,  a  visit  to  the 
Hebraic  fraternity  with  his  timepiece.  He  had  once 
or  twice  attempted  protestation,  but  this  had  always 
brought  back  his  articles  per  return  of  post,  with  the 
accompaniment  of  a  haughty  letter.  Therefore  he 
had  forborne  the  vile  treatment  submissively,  but  it 
had  wrought  deep  gloom  in  him. 

He  was  alone,  moreover.  The  parks  that  summer, 
and  his  rooms  at  nights,  had  seen  tragic  deeps  in 
Harry  Denzil.  They  had  heard  confused  speech,  too, 
once  or  twice,  when  the  forgetfulness  that  lies  at  bot- 
tom of  ruddy  liquors  had  tempted  him. 

With  the  month  of  August  things  had  somewhat 
mended  with  him.  The  owners  of  the  inevitable 
names  that  he  had  come  to  hate  with  a  deadly  hatred, 
betook  themselves  for  holidays,  and  he  was  suffered  a 
more  liberal  entry  into  the  sacred  circles.  September, 
however,  had  seen  him  beaten  back  from  the  positions 
he  had  won,  almost,  as  it  were,  with  bleeding  hands. 
This  intensified  his  mood.  In  his  very  bitterness  he 
failed  to  see  that  August  had,  nevertheless,  consider- 
ably advantaged  his  position.     It  had  left  him  with  a 


Cogitations  263 

fair  pocketful  of  silver.  It  had  also  gained  him  a  few, 
very  few,  permanent  coigns  of  literary  vantage. 

Lonely,  spiritless,  restless,  it  had  become  his  wont 
to  pace  the  streets  to  ease  himself.  He  was  not  one 
that  readily  made  friends.  His  sensitiveness  forbade 
this.  He  expected  too  much  of  acquaintances  in  the 
initial  stages  of  friendship;  and  his  too  eager  advances 
being  turned  coldly  away  from,  he  would  shrink  into 
himself.  He  demanded  that  the  world  hear  him 
gladly;  and  if  it  eschewed  his  enthusiasm,  he  fled  It 
incontinently.  His  was  the  loneliness  of  the  Instinct- 
ive conqueror.  He  rarely  assimilated  himself  to 
others.  He  dominated  or  shunned  company.  Those 
that  forbore  his  vagaries  loved  him.  Battersby's,  for 
example,  was  a  genuine  affection.  But  he  needed  es- 
sentially the  company  of  comfort.  All  need  it;  par- 
ticularly he. 

Had  Rose  been  beside  him  she  had  been  to  him  not 
only  the  security  of  rebellious  emotion,  but  the  cheerer 
and  insplrer  to  steady  work.  Her  proposals  to  join 
him  had  attracted  him  strangely.  Naturally  disposed 
lightly  to  regard  obstacles,  he  would  probably  have 
accepted  it  had  It  not  been  for  Mr.  Bradley's  marked 
and  manifest  disapproval.  It  had  been  theme  of  lov- 
ing dialogue  between  them  on  the  occasion  of  his  visit 
to  WInmouth  In  the  summer.  But  Mr.  Bradley  had 
loomed  for  barrier;  and  the  more  undeniable  since  he 
was  generally  so  sympathetic  and  open  minded  for  new 
Ideas. 

Thus  he  took  to  striding  the  streets  to  ease  his 
chafed  spirit,  with  results  not  always  nor  altogether 
satisfactory. 

On  one  evening  in  October  he  paced  disconsolately 
down  the  Kensington  High  Street.  It  rained  no 
longer  now,  but  the  pavements  bore  evidences  of  the 


264  Broken  Arcs 

fact  that  the  waterways  of  heaven  had  but  lately  been 
at  work.  The  dazzling  shop-windows  gleamed  in 
them;  and  a  floating  mist  lent  enchantment  to  the 
scene.  It  was  amid  a  mixed  throng  he  strode,  and  it 
brought  a  strange  comfort  to  his  restless  thought.  Bo- 
hemia rubbed  shoulders  with  Philistia;  Suburbia  jos- 
tled the  West  End;  Poverty  eyed  Luxury,  and  they 
both  looked  askance  at  the  straying  examples  of  a  care- 
less Artistry. 

Suddenly  from  out  the  people  a  face  gleamed  on 
Harry,  and  his  brain  registered  an  oval  profile  and  a 
haunting  smile.  Quickly  his  face  turned  over  his 
shoulder,  and  he  saw,  more  clearly  now,  a  face  that 
earned  the  title  for  beauty,  in  similar  posture  to  his 
own,  with  radiant  smile,  moreover,  some  few  paces 
behind  him,  and  receding.  He  passed  hesitatingly  on; 
yet  looked  back  anon.  Now  he  saw  no  face,  but  an 
elegant  form  receding  In  the  crowd.  It  was  attired 
from  neck  to  heel  in  a  clinging  fawn  waterproof  cloak. 
What  hat  It  wore  he  could  not  say,  for  a  purple  motor 
veil  (purple  beneath  a  dazzling  arc-light)  held  it 
firmly,  the  end  of  the  bow  that  was  knotted  beneath 
the  chin,  floating  over  the  shoulders.  As  he  looked 
the  face  looked  back  again  with  smiling  invitation,  and 
his  heart  beat  a  high  tattoo  on  his  ribs. 

His  feet  became  reluctant  to  take  him  forward,  and 
to  ease  them  he  took  them  to  the  curb-side,  letting  his 
eyes  rove  backward  after  the  figure  in  fawn.  Dis- 
tinctly he  saw  it  look  back  again;  and  then  make  its 
way  to  a  gaily-lit  window.  His  feet  moved  that  way, 
slowly  at  first,  then  swiftly  at  last. 

What  occupied  the  fawn  figure,  he  saw,  was  a  boot- 
shop.  To  the  right  It  stood,  surveying  footwear. 
He  moved  over  to  the  other  window  and  sur- 
veyed footwear  constructed  for  stouter  purpose.     His 


Cogitations  265 

rebellious  eye,  looking  down  a  sidelong  glance,  saw  a 
profile  that  Inclined  to  classic  with  something  of  the 
urgency  of  gothlc.  He  saw,  too,  crisped  locks  of  hair 
that  had  escaped  from  the  purple  prison  to  lend  glori- 
ous remoteness  to  a  cheek  across  which  there  leapt 
flickering  smiles. 

He  had  been  accosted  by,  yea,  and  had  accosted, 
wayworn  ladles  of  the  streets.  But  his  eye  judged 
this  to  be  a  different  matter. 

Presently  the  figure  left  the  window,  and  came  past 
him  to  resume  Its  walk.  He  turned  half-about.  In 
time  to  see  a  face  that  smiled  swiftly  and  mischiev- 
ously at  him.  Long  lashes  had  gone  quickly  up  to 
disclose  two  eyes  that  smiled  In  concert  with  the  face 
. — smiling  at  him,  directly  at  him — and  then  drooped 
again.  Swiftly  he  sped  after  the  figure,  and  rejoined 
it  on  its  far  side. 

"Good  evening,"  said  he. 

"Good  evening,"  she  replied.  "I  wondered  If  you 
were  coming." 

He  strode  on  beside  her  with  wild  blood.  Torment 
was  In  him.  They  two  might  have  had  the  whole 
world  to  themselves  for  all  he  knew  to  the  contrary. 

"Won't  you  take  my  arm?"  he  said,  extending  a 
comely  bend  for  her  to  place  her  requested  member  In. 

Her  reply  was  the  deed. 

"You  live  down  here,  I  needn't  ask,"  said  she.  Her 
voice  was  musical,  with  a  certain  strain  In  It  telling  him 
that  Its  owner  was  not  unacquainted  with  the  foot- 
lights. 

"No,  I  don't,  as  a  point  of  fact,"  he  replied.  "I 
live  at  Chelsea.     But  I  felt  restless,  so  out  I  camel" 

They  trod  on  In  silence,  her  arm  In  his.  Neither 
spoke  for  awhile.  He  looked  down  at  her,  and  saw 
that  she  smiled  mischievously  at  him.     He  saw,  too, 


266  Broken  Arcs 

that  she  was  exceedingly  beautiful,  with  rather  the 
beauty  of  form  than  the  beauty  of  spirit.  Her  beauty 
was  no  shy  product  of  the  hills,  of  sunsets  or  twilight. 
It  was  radiant  to  endure  the  ordeals  of  footlights.  It 
was  not  brazen;  It  was  far  from  being  brazen  or  ruth- 
less. It  had  Its  own  essential  spirit.  Yet  It  was  not 
a  theme  for  poet;  It  was  rather  a  theme  for  songster. 
Nevertheless  Harry,  who  was  not  unlearned  In  the 
things  of  life,  disassociated  It  entirely  from  meretri- 
cious wooing  for  lucre.  This  charm  of  hers  seemed 
to  him  rather  the  revelry  of  mischief,  the  glory  of 
abandon. 

A  side  turning  loomed  like  a  dark  pit  before  them, 
with  far  trees  showing  dark  branches  against  a  dark 
wet  sky.  He  suggested  that  they  should  turn  down 
thither,  and  she  assented. 

"Where  are  we  going  to?*'  she  asked,  when  a  short 
way  down  the  turning  In  question.  As  she  asked,  she 
stopped  and  faced  about. 

Dim  figures  of  the  distant  Rose  floated  before  his 
eyes;  and  convicted  his  present  position  as  evil.  He 
was  disturbed;  he  was  unhappy;  but  a  strange  turmoil 
was  in  his  blood. 

*'I  don't  know,"  he  said.  **Let's  go  and  have  a 
glass  of  wine  somewhere.'* 

*'I  seldom  drink,  strange  to  say,"  she  said;  rather, 
she  seemed  half  to  sing  It,  such  was  the  lilt  she  gave  It. 

**Then  a  cup  of  coffee?"  he  suggested. 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  drooping  eyelashes,  and 
with  the  same  flickering  smile  she  said — 

"I'm  in  business  here,  you  know." 

"Business?"  he  said,  mystified,  scenes  of  drapery 
waving  before  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  my  dear  boy,  business." 

"What  business?"  he  asked. 


Cogitations  267 

"Oh,  well,  I  needn't  go  Into  details,  need  I?"  she 
said.     Her  voice  seemed  to  laugh,  but  failed  of  mirth. 

He  looked  on  her;  and  comprehension  leapt  swiftly 
on  him. 

"Ohr  hesald. 

VIII 

They  stood  facing  each  other;  and  excitement  was 
riotous  in  him.  All  his  pent  passion  of  emotion  roared 
through  him,  becoming  almost  too  much  for  him  to 
contain.     His  brain  reeled. 

"Shall  we  go  and  have  a  glass  of  wine  now,  any- 
way?" he  said,  more  to  say  something  than  from  any 
hope  to  accomplish  anything. 

"I  never  drink,  really,'*  she  said.  "It's  no  use  our 
standing  here  like  this,  is  it?"  she  added,  with  laughter 
in  her  voice. 

"No,  I  suppose  it  isn't,"  he  said. 

"My  flat's  not  far  from  here,"  she  said.  "Will  you 
come?" 

"Very  well,"  he  assented. 

Harry  shut  moral  eyes  to  consequences,  and  went 
beside  her.  There  are  some  moods  that  defy  the 
psychologist;  and  his  was  one  of  them.  He  was  borne 
forward  on  a  wave  that  seemed  to  wake  from  no- 
where. Through  streets  that  seemed  ill-lit  by  com- 
parison with  the  lavish  splendour  of  the  High  Street 
they  trod.  He  had  slipped  his  arm  about  her  waist; 
but,  though  she  had  lodged  no  protest,  her  manner  had 
evinced  aversion  to  such  public  display  of  amorous- 
ness, and  therefore  he  had  removed  it  from  that 
shapely  resting-place  to  place  it  within  her  arm. 

"I  didn't  think  you  were  that  sort,"  said  he,  euphem- 
istically referring  to  his  discovery  of  her  vocation. 


268  Broken  Arcs 

"Nasty  shock,  I  suppose/*  she  said;  and  there  wa? 
a  touch  of  the  bitter  in  her  voice. 

**No;  I  don't  know,"  he  said  stoutly.  **I  don't  sup- 
pose you  took  it  up  for  choice.'' 

"Not  a  word,  not  a  word,  not  a  word  to  the  great 
Grandee,"  she  sang  softly  beside  him. 

He  tried  once  or  twice  to  collect  his  thoughts,  for 
there  was  a  voice  that  spoke  uncomfortable  urgency 
through  him.  But  it  was  a  fruitless  task.  With  each 
failure  he  had  more  and  more  to  relinquish  effort,  and 
to  resign  himself  to  the  flood  that  bore  him  forward. 

"Haven't  we  arrived  yet?"  he  asked,  seeking  to 
assert  a  defensive  expostulation. 

"My  dear,  we're  there,"  she  said. 

They  stood  before  a  large  red-brick  building  that 
towered  heavenward.  Its  upper  portion  disappeared 
into  night,  making  night  yet  more  dark.  Its  lower 
portion  took  some  shape  and  outline;  and  that  the 
whole  was  indeed  constructed  from  red-brick  could  be 
guessed  from  the  fact  that  the  light  which  an  adjacent 
street-lamp  threw  on  some  portion  of  its  base  showed 
the  walls  to  be  of  that  hue.  One  only  of  its  numerous 
windows  was  lit,  gleaming  like  the  malignant  eye  of  a 
Polyphemus  before  Ulysses  wrought  his  mischief 
on  it. 

She  led  the  way  up  ill-lit  stairs;  and  finally  produc- 
ing a  purse  to  get  her  key  thereout,  she  stopped  before 
the  door  of  her  flat. 

"Here  we  are,  you  seel"  she  said,  stepping  firmly 
in  before  him,  and  switching  on  all  the  lights.  "I  hate 
gloominess,  don't  you?  Plenty  of  light  for  me, 
though  my  deeds  are  evil."  She  laughed  again;  a  sil- 
very musical  laugh,  though  he  thought  he  could  catch 
again  in  it  that  touch  of  the  bitter. 

He  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  well-furnished  room. 


Cogitations  269 

watching  her  as  she  divested  herself  of  her  veil,  hat 
and  cloak.  Her  costume,  he  could  see,  was  elegant, 
but  showed  signs  of  wear.  She  smiled  at  him  as  she 
removed  her  hat,  displaying  a  well-crisped  head  of 
hair  taking  firmly  back  to  a  well-ordered  cluster  of 
curls. 

*'Well,  curious,"  she  said,  with  a  smart  nod  of  her 
head,  "do  you  approve  of  me?" 

"YouVe  passable,"  he  replied. 

Next  it  came  to  the  turn  of  her  gloves,  and  when 
these  were  divested  she  came  over  to  him,  and  taking 
his  face  in  her  hands  she  regarded  him  steadily  awhile. 
She  waved  back  the  hair  from  his  forehead,  still  con- 
templating him  earnestly. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you're  a  handsome  man,  you 
know." 

He  laughed  out.  Nevertheless  he  glowed  with 
satisfaction. 

"Am  I?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  leaning  toward  him  with  pursed 
lips. 

He  caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  passionately 
over  and  over  again.  Lying  in  his  arms,  then,  she 
looked  up  at  him,  humming  a  tune.  Presently  she 
reached  forth  a  hand,  and  giving  him  a  smart  slap  on 
the  cheek,  she  broke  away,  pirouetting  about  the  room, 
singing— 

"And  she  came  from  the  uttermost  heaven,  she  did. 
On  a  rainbow  of  purest  light. 
To  the  peak  of  a  mountain  high  she  slid. 
And  made  the  whole  earth  bright.*' 

"Do  you  know  that  song?"  she  broke  off,  eyeing 
him  with  sidelong  mischief,  one  foot  half  thrust  for- 
ward, and  one  foot  bent  with  her  weight,  her  whole 
body  In  a  balance  of  arrested  motion. 


27^  Broken  Arcs 

"No,  I  don't,"  he  said,  smiling.     "Go  on  with  It." 
"My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  abandoning  her  pose,  and 
coming  over  to  him;  "I  can't  sing  to  order,  can  I?" 
She  pinched  his  forearm  severely  as  she  spoke,  grimac- 
ing as  she  did  so. 

"Why  not?"  he  laughed.     "Aren't  I  worthy  of  It?" 
"Well,   you   deserve   It   for  that,"    she   said,    and 
pinched  him  again.     "I  believe  I  shall  give  you  an- 
other verse,  shall  I?" 
"Do!"  said  he. 

"Then  I  will,"  and  almost  before  he  could  follow 
her  movements  she  was  swinging  about  the  room  again, 
singing — 

••To  the  margent  oft  mountain  pool 
With  fluttering  steps  she  came. 
But  touching  its  brackish  waters  cool 
She  fled  in  a  sheet  of  flame." 

"Where's  that  from?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Oh,  a  thing  I  was  In  once."     She  spoke  listlessly. 

"But  who  Is  it  about?" 

"Me!"  she  said  radiantly,  striking  her  two  hands  on 
her  breast,  and  then,  seizing  his  wrists  and  dancing 
about  him,  she  sang  again — 

•'Her  name  was  Theodora,  and  she 
Was  a  fairy  of  high  renown: 
The  sunrise  gave  her  its  mystery, 
The  sunset  a  golden  gown.** 

"That's  the  first  verse,"  she  said,  still  dancing  about 
him.  "And,  my  dear  boy,  I  was  Theodora.  That's 
what  they  sang  about  me.  You  wouldn't  think  it, 
would  you?  Theodora  In  a  London  flat,  ah  me  I" 
The  last  sentence  was  spoken  sadly,  with  a  touch  of  the 
old  bitterness. 

A  deep  pathos  seized  on  Harry  as  he  regarded  her. 


Cogitations  i^ji 

Seating  himself  In  a  chair  beside  the  fire  that  leapt  In 
the  grate,  he  drew  her  to  his  knee. 

**Now  don't  be  serious,"  she  said,  seeing  the  gravity 
come  over  his  face.  She  rested  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  regarded  him  steadily.  "Nothing  seri- 
ous," she  said  again,  with  a  nod. 

He  drew  her  to  him  again  and  kissed  her.  She 
threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him,  It 
seemed,  with  equal  passion. 

"I  like  you,"  she  said,  extricating  herself. 
"I  like  you,"  he  replied,  drawing  her  to  him  again, 
while  their  lips  met  in  a  long  kiss. 

^  "I  oughtn't  to,"  he  said  presently,  holding  her  from 
him. 

"Why  not?"  she  said,  frowning  at  him. 
"Because  Fve  got  a  girl,"  he  said,   avoiding    her 
glance,  and  fumbling  with  his  words.     "I  am  engaged, 
that's  to  say,  and  I'm  waiting  to  get  married." 

"Oh,  are  you?"  She  looked  at  him  with  deepening 
disapproval. 

"You  don't  like  it,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  see  what  it  has  got  to  do  with  me,"  she 
replied,  with  a  toss  of  her  head.  She  sat  still  on  his 
knee, but  hermannerwasone  of  constraint  and  coldness. 
"But  you  don't  like  It,"  he  said.  A  strange  feeling 
of  pity  came  over  him;  and  putting  his  arms  about  her 
waist  he  attempted  to  draw  her  to  him.  But  she  would 
not. 

"My  dear  boy,  /  don't  mind,"  she  said.  "I've  got 
my  living  to  get,  and  this  needn't  Interfere.  Only," 
she  added,  with  more  than  a  touch  of  bitterness,  "all 
the  fellows  I've  ever  liked  have  got  girls  or  wives  or 
something  of  that  kind."  She  broke  to  a  snatch  of  a 
wild  song;  but  breaking  off  quickly  she  added  abruptly, 
"I'm  Theodora  in  a  London  flat,  you  see !" 


272  Broken  Arcs 

A  great  gust  of  pity  swept  on  Harry.  Her  light 
reference  to  her  manner  of  life  moved  him  Inexpres- 
sibly.    He  said — 

"What  made  you  take  up  this  kind  of  a  life?" 

She  looked  down  at  him  haughtily,  as  though  to  fend 
off  an  undesirable  subject.     She  said — 

"My  dear  boy,  one's  got  to  live." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  on  the  stage  once." 

"Ah !  One  can't  always  get  situations  for  the  ask- 
ing. And  then  what  has  one  to  do?  Starve?  Well, 
none  of  us  like  that." 

He  was  puzzled.  But  the  deepest  pity  was  on  him, 
and  he  went  on — 

"But  have  you  tried  to  get  Into  a  shop?"  He  felt, 
to  do  him  justice,  as  he  spoke,  that  he  was  scarcely 
saying  a  very  courageous  thing  In  asking  her  to  sell  her 
soul  Instead  of  her  body. 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy" — she  laughed  her  silvery  laugh- 
ter— "that's  not  very  much  better.  A  good  many  of 
them  are  on  the  game,  too.  Not  that  I  didn't  try. 
I  did.  One  doesn't  do  this  sort  of  thing  first  go  off, 
my  love.  But  you  can't  get  jobs  for  the  asking,  you 
know." 

He  looked  disconsolate.  He  drew  her  to  him,  and 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  She  kissed  his  cheek  with 
a  quick  motion,  like  a  bird's  peck. 

"What  funny  people  some  of  you  men  are  I  You 
keep  on  asking  us  to  leave  this  kind  of  life,  and  yet 
you  come  to  us."  Her  words  stabbed  Harry.  "I  tell 
you  what!"  She  sprang  from  his  knee,  and  stood  be- 
fore him.  "You  get  me  a  position,  and  I'll  give  this 
up.  That's  a  bargain.  Though  I  don't  promise  to 
give  my  boy  up." 

"Your  boy!"  Harry  felt  suddenly  and  unaccount- 
ably jealous. 


Cogitations  273 

"Yes,  my  boy.  He's  in  Paris,  having  a  very  gay 
time,  I  suppose.  I  don't  mind,  though.  I  don't  care 
very  much  for  him,  but  his  money's  as  good  as  other 
people's.  I  wish  I  could  get  somebody  I  cared  for. 
But  everybody  I  like  has  got  somebody  else." 

"Nobody  cares  for  me. 

Nobody  cares  for  me, 
Fm  a  poor  little  waif  by  the  wayside. 

And  nobody  cares  for  me." 

She  sang  this  to  a  popular  tune  of  the  streets,  aping 
dejection  before  him  with  that  humour  which  is  all 
tears.  Then  she  broke  away  again,  and  started  swing- 
ing about  the  room,  singing  the  same  words  to  a  jaunty 

jig- 
Harry  felt  moved  to  tears  as  he  watched  her.  He 
felt  a  deep  tragedy  in  her  very  effort  at  abandoned 
mirth.  He  longed  to  be  able  to  aid  her;  but  was  help- 
less. 

With  that  suddenness  that  was  characteristic  of  her 
she  stopped  her  song  and  dance.  She  ran  up  to  him, 
and  taking  his  hand,  said — 

"Come  along!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"No,  no!  Don't  ask  me!"  he  cried.  "I  mayn't,  I 
can't."  He  stood  with  his  hand  in  hers,  fiercely  re- 
garding her. 

"Oh  I"  She  looked  deeply  disappointed.  "Am  I  so 
horrid?" 

"Oh,  not  that!  Only  you  see  I  may  not.  Don't 
tempt  me !"  As  he  pleaded,  he  drew  her  to  him,  and 
kissed  her  passionately.     It  gave  him  strange  relief. 

She  regarded  him  pathetically.  Then  she  tossed  her 
head  defiantly  and  said — 

"But  you'll  come  to  see  me  again?" 


274  Broken  Arcs 

*Tes;  I  promise  you  I  will.*'  He  spoke  as  thougH 
in  firm  reliance  on  himself. 

"And,  dear,"  she  said  hesitatingly;  "  you  don't  mind 
my  asking  you,  have  you  got  a  present  for  me?  Oh, 
I  am  horrid  for  asking  you.  But  still,  what  am  I  to 
do?     I'm  very  hard  up." 

He  drew  forth  two  sovereigns,  hardly  earned 
money;  and  held  them  on  the  palm  of  his  hand  before 
her. 

"There  you  are,"  said  he,  "take  one  or  both.  I'd 
rather  you  took  only  one,  for  I'm  very  hard  up  myself. 
Still — you  choose." 

She  took  both;  and  regarded  him.  She  looked  at 
the  sovereigns,  then  at  him  again.  Hurriedly  she  re- 
turned one. 

"Put  it  away  quickly,"  she  said,  "or  I'll  take  it.  But 
you  will  come  to  see  me  again?" 

"I  promise,"  said  he,  as  she  came  up  to  him  for  a 
kiss. 

It  was  over  half-an-hour  later  before  he  finally  went. 
And  when  he  did  so,  it  was  with  the  pressure  of  her 
kisses  on  his  lips,  the  memory  of  her  face  shining  be- 
fore his  eyes,  and  her  name,  Gwendoline  Farrer,  in  his 
ears. 

When  he  arrived  home  a  letter  from  Battersby 
awaited  him.     It  ran  thus — 

"My  Dear  Denzil, 

"Prythee  call  on  our  Advertising  Manager  to- 
morrow at  noon,  will  you?  He  wants  a  high-spirited, 
good-looking  and  affable  man;  and  of  course  I  said  you 
were  he.  There's  money  in  it,  man!  I  have  spoken 
for  you.     Act  up  to  my  adjectives,  and  you  get  it. 

"Ever  yours, 

"Hugh  Battersby. 


Cogitations  \  275 

*T.  S. — My  motto  for  the  occasion  Is :  'Nothing  Is, 
but  thinking  makes  It  so.'  It's  either  derived,  or  not. 
In  the  one  case  It  speaks  for  my  erudition :  In  the  other 
for  my  originality.     But  in  either  case,  think  on't ! 


IX 

It  Is  the  morning  light  that  tests  and  tries  the  qual- 
ity of  an  emotion.  It  may  perhaps  be  said  that  the 
emotion  that  is  as  rich  of  hue,  as  varied  In  charm,  by 
the  cold  light  of  morn  as  It  seemed  to  be  in  the  dark  of 
night,  has  thereby  passed  Indissolubly  Into  the  consti- 
tution of  its  possessor,  and  is  to  be  reckoned  a  factor 
in  all  subsequent  business  of  his  life. 

When  Harry  awoke  next  morning  recollection's  In- 
filtration to  his  mind  was  slow.  When  it  came,  how- 
ever, he  sprang  from  bed  with  a  cry.  Going  over  to 
his  large  portrait  of  Rose  he  regarded  It  sadly,  con- 
templatively. Words  came  to  his  lips,  in  the  natural 
soliloquy  of  pent  and  perplexed  emotion.  "Rose, 
Rose,"  he  murmured,  addressing  the  Irresponsive  card- 
board, "I  love  you,  God  knows  I  love  you.  You  made 
life  for  me.  That  other  girl's  nothing.  Whatever 
made  me  do  that  I  don't  know ;  but  I  was  faithful  to 
you." 

His  thought  told  him  that  such  of  faithfulness  as  he 
had  achieved  was  but  a  mere  matter  of  carnal  fact; 
that  in  truth  he  had  forsworn  allegiance  of  heart,  the 
deeper  faithfulness.  But  he  answered  his  thought  with 
as  meet  intricacy.  He  said  that  the  deeps  of  his  being 
were  true  to  Rose,  that  only  its  surface  had  been 
touched  by  a  new  passing  wind  of  emotion.  He 
sounded  on  stronger  perplexities.     "Must  I  forswear 


276  Broken  Arcs 

all  pity,  even  love,  such  love  as  makes  life  great,  for 
the  innumerable  mass  of  women,  because  I  owe  fealty 
to  one,  the  fealty  of  joy  and  truth?"  He  found  him- 
self no  answer,  and  laid  the  portrait  on  its  stand,  still 
regarding  it. 

'Terhaps  I  should  have  accepted  your  offer  to  come 
to  me,"  he  said  again  in  spoken  soliloquy;  "then  we 
both  could  have  helped  this  girl.  Oh  Heaven,  what 
lives  some  women  live!"  Thus  he  touched  one  of  the 
impossible  desires  of  a  masculine  large  wave  of  emo- 
tion that  in  its  catholicity  breaks  on  certain  irremov- 
able rocks.  Had  indeed  Rose  been  with  him,  and  yet 
this  have  occurred  (an  unlikely  contingency  for  him,  it 
must  be  confessed),  he  might  peradventure  have  es- 
sayed this.  But  it  would  have  been  to  venture  an  un- 
navigable  passage. 

"What  lives  some  women  live !"  This  sang  through 
him  as  he  dressed.  Not  unversed  in  introspective  dis- 
section, he  nevertheless  did  not  know  that  it  is  through 
such  pity  disastrous  infatuations  are  begot.  "Gwendo- 
line Farrer!"  he  murmured,  smitten  with  reflection  in 
the  midst  of  pulling  hose  over  cold  toes.  Melancholy 
held  him.  Even  the  rigours  of  a  cold  bath  had  failed 
to  dismiss  it;  which  bespoke  a  lamentable  state  of  soul. 
"Gwendoline  Farrer  I"  He  wondered  by  what  pass 
one  bearing  that  name  had  come  to  her  manner  of  life. 
His  mind  railed  on  at  a  harsh  world  that  created  "mis- 
fortunates,"  and  then  spurned  the  product  they  had  so 
produced.  He  determined  he  would  not  be  of  their 
number.  He  would  visit  Miss  Gwendoline  Farrer  even 
as  he  might  any  other  lady  of  his  acquaintance.  "I 
would  visit  a  milliner,"  he  muttered;  "that  is  if  I  knew 
her.  And  if  Society  offered  ten  shillings  a  week  to 
Gwen  (so  he  had  addressed  her  the  previous  even- 
ing) as  a  milliner,  and  ten  pounds  a  week  as  the  other 


Cogitations  277 

thing,  then  It  should  respect  her  for  accepting  its  own 
preference.  At  any  rate,  it's  no  business  of  mine  how 
she  earns  her  living.'' 

So  he  fenced  his  dubious  conscience.  But  he  was 
not  best  happy  as  he  wrote  his  letter  to  Rose,  with  her 
portrait  before  him  as  was  his  usual  habit — for  he 
found  love  the  more  idealized  for  a  tangible  symbol. 
Even  the  business  of  the  day  could  not  dismiss  his 
melancholy.  It  absorbed,  obsessed  him.  But  the 
business  of  the  day  demanded  acquittal,  nevertheless. 
He  called  on  the  Advertising  Manager  at  the  Daily 
Urgent  at  the  prompt  hour  of  noon,  and  found  him 
surprisingly  agreeable.  He  felt  even  a  personal  sense 
of  indebtedness  to  the  man  for  his  kindliness  and 
courtesy.  ^  He  had  not  met  much  of  this.  Harry 
glowed  with  satisfaction. 

"Ah,  sit  down,  Mr.  Denzll,"  said  he.  "Battersby's 
been  talking  to  me  about  you.  He  even  came  down  here 
In  the  morning  to  do  so,  which  says  you  must  have  in- 
spired him  Incalculably.     Good  chap,  Battersby!" 

"Splendid!  He's  been  a  good  friend  to  me,"  said 
Harry,  with  enthusiasm  that  feared  to  speak  too 
strongly. 

"Well;  and  he  spoke  very  well  of  you  too.  You'll 
wonder  why  I  want  to  see  a  literary  man  like  you  about 
a  business  matter." 

"I  must  admit  I  did  wonder.  It's  scarcely  In  my 
line." 

"Well,  it's  a  new  idea  of  mine,  and  needs  explain- 
ing. I  want  you  to  regard  it  as  a  literary  affair.  I 
even  propose  to  observe  the  literary  distinction  of  not 
making  an  exclusive  demand  on  your  time.  Naturally, 
If  this  pays  you  better  than  reviewing  books,  you'll  do 
more  of  this  and  less  of  the  other.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  shall  reserve  the  literary  privilege  of  transferring 


278  Broken  Arcs 

your  work  to  somebody  else  if  your  work  is  not  up  to 
what  is,  in  my  opinion,  par." 

This  was  said  so  graciously  and  affably  that  Harry 
was  interested.     The  other  went  on — 

*'I  wish  literary  articles,  written  in  a  literary  way, 
on  rising  industries  and  ventures.  It  will  be  a  capital 
and  most  insidious  advertisement  for  them,  especially 
if  the  articles  have  an  entirely  literary  wit  and  flavour; 
and  it  will  also  suit  us,  for  we  shall  charge  fifty  per 
cent,  more  for  them  than  for  ordinary  advertisements. 
It  will  all  depend  on  how  the  articles  are  written.  I 
have  seen  some  of  your  work,  Mr.  Denzil,  and  I  think 
your  aid  will  be  of  mutual  advantage  to  us.  In  fact,  I 
should  be  prepared  to  be  liberal  with  terms.'' 

He  waited  for  Harry  to  reply.  Harry  spoke  re- 
flectively. 

**In  other  words,  the  public  would  read  what  it 
thought  to  be  a  paid  essay,  but  what  it  really  would 
be  reading  would  be  a  carefully  doctored  advertise- 
ment.'' 

A  smile  passed  over  the  face  of  the  other,  for  he 
had  been  warned  against  Harry's  moral  analyses  by 
Battersby.  He  addressed  himself  to  a  problem  that 
he  had  already  thought  over. 

*'No,  it  doesn't  bear  that  interpretation,  even  re- 
motely. The  public  will  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  your 
writing,  for  we  would  encourage,  we  even  desire,  the 
literary  value  of  the  'personal  note.'  It  will  further 
be  advantaged  by  having  put  before  it  a  genuine  indus- 
try that  needs  encouragement.  For  instance,  here  are 
two  that  would  be  worth  looking  up."  He  produced 
a  couple  of  cards,  and  handed  them  over  to  Harry. 

In  short,  Harry  left  the  office  not  long  thereafter, 
having  agreed  to  terms  that  relieved  him  of  all  imme- 
diate anxiety  if  only  some  success  met  him.     To  put 


Cogitations  279 

this  to  the  test  he  had  taken  the  two  cards,  and  deter- 
mined to  call  at  the  addresses  designated  thereon  that 
very  day.     The  enthusiasm  of  novelty  glowed  In  him. 

At  the  first  of  the  two  addresses  he  received  short 
shrift,  being  treated  with  such  offensive  contumely  that 
he  entered  a  luncheon  resort  in  the  City  In  a  hot 
mood. 

"Fm  as  good  as  they,  confound  them!"  he  muttered. 
"Why  can't  some  brutes  learn  the  commonplace  de- 
cency of  manners.'' 

After  lunch,  however,  his  heat  had  declined  consid- 
erably, and  he  determined  to  carry  out  his  relin- 
quished decision  of  visiting  the  second  of  the  two  ad- 
dresses. 

Here  he  entered  a  most  sumptuous  building.  Ma- 
hogany panelling  and  a  casual  flunkey  greeted  him  In 
its  porch.  He  found  the  room  that  contained  the  firm 
he  sought  on  a  lofty  floor,  and  approached  by  devious 
alleys  made  by  walnut-wood  and  crinkled  glass.  When 
he  entered  he  was  accosted  by  a  clerk,  one  of  a  number 
that  seemed  to  find  a  heavy  leisure  best  tricked  away 
by  subtle  games  of  draughts  beneath  half-open  desk 
doors.  There  had  been  a  rapid  shutting  of  desks  as 
he  had  entered.  He  stated  his  business,  said  he 
wished  to  see  the  principal,  and  was  at  length  shown 
Into  a  luxuriously  fitted  apartment  In  which  an  elegant 
man  sat  reading  a  newspaper. 

"You  wished  to  see  me  about  advertising,  I  under- 
stand," said  the  stranger. 

"Yes,"  said  Harry,  and  plunged  at  once  Into  an  ex- 
planation of  the  scheme  that  had  been  propounded  to 
him  earlier  that  day.  "You  see,"  he  concluded,  "the 
advantage  of  this  Is,  that  It  has  no  appearance  of  an 
advertisement.  And  we  ensure  the  quality  of  disin- 
terestedness by  making  some  selection  among  the  firms 


28o  Broken  Arcs 

that  wish  us  to  treat  them  In  this  way.  So  you  create 
an  objective  and  detached  aroma  that  should  be  ex- 
tremely valuable."  Once  In  It,  Harry  attacked  the 
matter  enthusiastically.  Moreover,  he  was  not  habitu- 
ated to  the  subtle  arts  and  devices  of  solicitation,  and 
therefore  his  manner  was  that  of  equality,  and  his  tone 
that  of  authority. 

The  stranger  was  obviously  Interested.  Something 
about  the  proposal  had  fastened  his  attention.  He  was 
a  large,  expansive  man,  with  a  Gallic-Hebraic  counte- 
nance. He  wore  a  neatly  trimmed  beard,  that  was 
aspersed  with  grey.  His  forehead  was  deeply  fur- 
rowed. His  nose  had  effected  a  mild  compromise  be- 
tween Roman  bony  aquUInlty  and  the  Hebraic  fleshy 
droop.  It  started  the  former,  but  concluded  with  the 
latter.  His  hair,  where  not  grey,  was  glossy  black. 
Colour  flushed  his  face ;  but  that  his  skin  was  olive  was 
unmistakably  manifested  by  his  long  hands. 

*'I  am  very  deeply  Interested,"  he  said.  ''I  think 
this  is  just  the  kind  of  thing  that  would  be  useful  to  us. 
You  write,  you  say;  may  I  see  some  of  your  writing?" 

Harry  handed  him  a  paper  In  which  an  article  of  his 
appeared,  somewhat  awkwardly.  This  commercial 
inspection  of  his  work  wounded  him.  He  heard  the 
door  of  the  office  outside  open  and  close.  At  this  the 
other  jumped  up. 

^That's  my  partner,"  said  he.  "It's  most  fortunate 
he  should  be  here,  for  he  seldom  comes  up.  He  has 
the  major  part  of  the  capital  Interest,  you  see;  and  we 
always  consult  one  another  about  an  outlay  of  money. 
I'll  go  and  bring  him." 

"Fm  afraid  I  haven't  the  pleasure  of  your  name," 
said  Harry,  as  he  passed  him. 

"True,  true;  you  haven't.  My  name  Is  Barras, 
Gerald  Barras."     He  gave  It  the  French  pronuncia- 


Cogitations  281 

tion.     "My   partner's   name   is    Colquhoun,    Richard 
Webber-Colquhoun." 

The  name  communicated  nothing  to  Harry,  and  he 
sat  peacefully  awaiting  the  re-entry  of  his  late  Inter- 
locutor, thinking  himself  fortunate  to  have  met  with  so 
hearty  a  reception.  When  Mr.  Barras  re-entered  with 
his  partner,  Harry  saw  that  the  newcomer  was  a  man 
of  upright  mien,  slight  of  build  and  foppishly  elegant 
of  attire.  He  was  clean  shaven;  and  the  hair  on  his 
temples  was  Iron-grey — prematurely,  for  his  well- 
groomed  locks  were  untainted  elsewhere. 

There  was  something  about  the  two  men  that  Harry 
did  not  like.  Barras  was  objectionably  sleek,  he 
thought,  particularly  In  his  manner  to  his  partner. 
Moreover,  there  was  a  strange  light  of  cunning  In  his 
eyes.  As  for  Webber-Colquhoun,  there  was  a  hard, 
calculating  look  In  his  face.  His  manner  was  super- 
cilious; and  Harry  felt  at  first  a  curiously  sensitive 
fear  of  him.  He  very  deliberately,  rudely  even, 
looked  over  Harry  from  heel  to  crown,  and  seemed  a 
little  mollified  after  the  examination.  Harry  flushed 
somewhat  at  the  treatment;  noticing  which,  the  other 
lifted  his  eyebrows  slightly  in  surprise,  and  turned  his 
eyes  away.  To  Harry  he  seemed  a  man  that  did  not 
propose  to  let  his  emotions  easily  run  away  with  him : 
one  who  held  a  cheap  regard  towards  his  fellow-beings 
on  this  earth. 

"Well,  Barras,  what's  the  proposal?"  he  said,  in 
rather  a  harsh,  unpleasant  voice. 

"Rather  a  good  one,  I  think,"  replied  Barras. 
"Mr. " 

"Denzll,"  interposed  Harry. 

"Mr.  Denzll  here  represents  the  Daily  Urgent,  and 
is  an  essayist  of  some  repute."  Harry  felt  somewhat 
perplexed,  but  did  not  lose  his  composure.   "His  paper 


282  Broken  Arcs 

is  Interested  in  our  proposal,  and  he  has  come  on  their 
behalf  to  offer  us  column-space  at  an  abnormally  cheap 
rate  for  the  exploitation  of  our  claim.  Of  course,  ad- 
vertisements of  a  development  like  ours  are  very  diffi- 
cult to  achieve.  But  this  proposal  meets  the  very 
difficulty.  For  Mr.  DenzIPs  intention  is  to  put  them 
in  the  form  of  literary  essays.  He'll  be  our  Hazlitt, 
in  fact.  It  seemed  to  me  that  one  such  column  for 
each  of  the  next  two  weeks,  and  two  such  columns  on 
the  subsequent  two  weeks  would,  with  the  other  irons 
I  have  in  the  fire,  ensure  us  a  premium  at  flotation  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  boom  is  decaying." 

"It's  a  good  idea,  don't  you  think?"  said  his  partner 
looking  over  at  him. 

"It's  an  admirable  idea.  It  couldn't  fail  to  help  us. 
An  ordinary,  or  an  obvious,  advertisement  would  do  us 
more  harm  than  good." 

"You  haven't  got  any  of  your  writing  on  you,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Webber-Colquhoun  to  Harry.  "It  all  de- 
pends on  that." 

For  the  second  time  Harry  blushed  as  he  handed 
over  his  paper.  He  blushed  a  deeper  hue  when  it 
was  handed  back  to  him  with  the  laconic  comment — 

"Not  at  all  so  bad!" 

They  went  then  into  a  discussion  of  ways  and  means, 
and  Harry  noticed  that  while  Barras  prompted  most 
of  the  notions  with  Gallic  fire,  it  was  Webber-Colqu- 
houn that  developed  them  in  his  frigid  calculating  way. 
He  seemed  to  understand  the  relation  of  cause  and 
effect  pretty  accurately  in  this  event,  but  he  struck 
Harry  as  being  of  extraordinarily  limited  intelligence 
outside  the  question  of  Hard  Cash.  Barras,  despite 
his  crafty  shrewdness,  seemed  a  man  of  altogether 
finer  intelligence.  He  seemed  to  have  a  most  subtle 
perception  of  the  effect  of  certain  policies  on  the  public 


Cogitations  283 

mind.  He  worked  the  invisible  emotions,  In  fact,  while 
Webber-Colquhoun  paid  heed  to  digltary  calculations. 

"You'd  do  well  to  take  up  shares  yourself,  Mr.  Den- 
zll,"  said  Barras,  with  enthusiasm. 

"Alas!"  said  Harry  expressively. 

"I  see,"  said  Barras.  "That's  unfortunate  for  you. 
I  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  give  you  ten  fully-paid 
ordinary — they'll  be  issued  at  ten  pounds — and  I  dare- 
say my  partner  will  do  the  same  if  at  allotment  they 
stand  at  a  premium  of  fifty  per  cent." 

"With  a  letter  to  that  effect  If  need  be,"  added  his 
partner  loftily,  at  which  Barras  looked  annoyed. 

Harry  left  the  office  presently,  with  an  appointment 
to  dine  with  the  two  of  them  up  West  the  following 
evening.  To  say  that  he  was  dazed  was  to  state  his 
condition  of  mind  with  a  mild  figure.  He  began  scep- 
tically to  look  out  for  disaster.  The  thing  seemed 
unnatural. 

When  he  had  gone  Barras  said  to  his  partner — 

"Just  the  very  thing,  at  the  present  moment.  I 
think  he'll  do  us  some  good.  It's  no  use  disguising 
the  fact  that  this  present  tendency  to  slump  in  oils 
won't  do  us  any  good.  Our  tip  Is  to  get  out  of  it  as 
soon  as  possible." 

"I  suppose,  Barras,  there's  not  much  oil  there,  as 
a  matter  of  fact." 

"Well,  I'm  a  mining  expert,  and  I  say  there  Is,  which 
IS  all  that  concerns  us  at  the  present  moment.  No  man 
can  be  sure  of  anything.  Besides,  we've  got  these  two 
other  men." 

"I  was  asking  your  private  opinion." 

"I  haven't  got  any  private  opinion."  Barras's 
manner  was  bland  and  sleek,  in  contrast  to  his  partner's 
supercilious  quiet.  "The  present  concern  is  rather, 
seeing  this  tendency  to  slump,  to  begin  our  'bull'  anew. 


284  Broken  Arcs 

We  should,  I  think,  find  it  wise  to  clear  out  between 
allotment  and  settlement."     He  laughed  easily. 

"Yep!''  said  the  other  shortly.  ''You're  watching 
things  carefully,  I  hope,  because  I  can't  be  bothered 
being  much  here." 

-  "Oh,  you  trust  me !  There's  nothing  much  to  do 
now  except  to  watch  and  manoeuvre.  We  shouldn't 
lose  anything  for  the  sake  of  a  few  pounds  just  now." 

"Oh,  I'll  pay  up.  Only  let  me  know  what  I'm 
doing." 

"It  was  a  bit  foolish,  that  offer  of  a  letter  to  Den- 
zil." 

"Perhaps  It  was.  I  thought  of  It  just  as  I  said  it. 
In  any  case.  It'll  stop  him  rounding  on  us  after,  if  any- 
thing went  wrong." 

X 

When  Harry  achieved  his  room  that  evening  he 
found  the  following  letter  awaiting  him — 

"My  Dear  Hal! 

"You  see  we're  quite  good  friends,  aren't  we? 
Don't  forget  your  promise  to  come  and  see  me  again. 
I'm  In  most  afternoons,  and  out  most  evenings.  Let 
me  know  if  you're  coming  on  an  evening,  and  I'll  stay 
in.  I  am  always  in  to  dinner  between  6.30  and  7.30 
anyway. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Hal,  this  is  a  terrible  life  we  poor 
girls  live!  It's  the  devil's  job  when  the  devil  drives. 
I  am  looking  forward  to  seeing  you  again.  I  like  you. 
Oh,  why  couldn't  you  be  my  boy,  instead  of  having  a 
horrid  girl  of  your  own?     I've  got  the  blues  to-day. 

"Your — loving,  Is  It? 

"GWEN." 


Cogitations  285 

He  remembered  he  had  given  her  his  address.  He 
stuffed  the  ktter  In  his  pocket,  and  turned  to  some 
reviewing  work  he  had,  to  find  something  that  a  per- 
plexity could  fasten  on  so  as  to  save  the  endless  gyra- 
tions of  thought  that  wearied  the  mind  and  made  no 
further  progress  towards  clarity.  Later,  however,  he 
surreptitiously  drew  It  forth  and  re-read  it.  Its  per- 
fume excited  him.  Before  turning  to  perplexed  slum- 
bers he  read  It  yet  once  again. 

The  following  evening  he  dined  with  Webber- 
Colquhoun  and  Barras.  The  former  seemed  now  some- 
what more  cordially  disposed  towards  him,  while  the 
latter  seemed  considerably  more  reserved.  They  had, 
as  it  were,  come  in  from  their  separate  poles  to  a  com- 
mon centre  of  Interest.  They  almost  sought  him.  This 
made  Harry  instinctively  hold  aloof.  In  this  way 
they  all  attained  more  of  an  equal  stature  than  when 
they  had  spoken  last. 

Business  was  severely  avoided  while  dinner  was  in 
progress.  Barras  showed  himself  of  a  considerable 
versatility  of  opinion  on  a  wide  range  of  subject. 
Webber-Colquhoun  was  chiefly  silent.  When  the 
dishes  were  cleared,  and  the  perfume  of  cigars  rose  as 
incense  from  the  three  of  them,  Barras  turned  to  his 
partner  and  said — 

"I  think  weVe  fairly  agreed  about  this  proposal/* 

"I  think  so!"  said  the  other. 

Turning  then  to  Harry  he  said — 

"It's  now  only  a  question  of  price.  I  think  your 
price  is  exorbitant."  This  was  said  with  a  curious 
drawing  together  of  the  eyelids  that  gave  Barras  a 
sinister  appearance. 

Harry  was  puzzled.  Wine  and  elation  was  in  him, 
however,  and  he  answered  loftily — 

"It's  unalterable,  at  any  rate." 


286  Broken  Arcs 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Barras 
resumed  his  blandness,  saying — 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  suppose  we'll  quarrel  about  that. 
We  wish  to  raise  no  obstacles.  But  as  a  set-off  against 
that  we  should,  of  course,  require  the  Daily  Urgent  to 
make  it  a  matter  of  recommendation.  They'd  do  that, 
I  presume." 

"I  don't  know.     That's  scarcely  in  my  province." 

"We  should,  of  course,  put  the  papers  before  you, 
Mr.  Denzil.  In  fact,  I  have  them  here  with  me, 
copies  of  the  originals,  that  is  to  say.  Apart  from  the 
expert  opinion,  which  is  of  high  value,  there  is,  of 
course,  the  fact  that  Mr.  Webber-Colquhoun  is  the 
leading  spirit  in  this.  His  name  is  a  considerable 
guarantee  in  itself."  Webber-Colquhoun  had  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  partner  with  a  hard  frown,  but  the  other 
went  on  firmly  and  imp erturb ably :  "I  should  be 
obliged  if  you  took  the  papers  with  you,  and  got  the 
first  article  in  hand  as  soon  as  possible.  If  you  would 
just  kindly  look  over  these  papers,  Mr.  Denzil " 

Harry  endeavoured  to  follow  Mr.  Barras  through 
the  wilderness  of  figures,  estimates  and  guarantees. 
But  his  mind,  gently  rocked  under  the  influence  of  an 
ancient  wine  that  had  come  floating  to  him  with  all 
the  fragrance  and  sunlight  of  the  plains  of  France,  a 
wine  that  had  got  its  sunlit  distillation  of  rare  value 
from  a  jocund  summer  of  years  agone,  refused  to  do 
battle  with  mundanelty.  Barras'  silkiest  tones  poured 
out  by  his  ears,  while  Harry's  thoughts  floated  through 
succulent  vineyards  escorted  by  the  subtle  nymphs 
that  had  been  bottled  for  so  long  in  crude  green  glass. 
No  forked  pine  had  held  these  dainty  Ariels;  but  stout 
corks  and  gilt  foil,  rather.  Now  they  were  away  over 
far  fields,  having  been  unloosed  by  broad-shirted  Pros- 
peros,  and  Harry's  thoughts  were  with  them. 


Cogitations  287 

His  eyes  regarded  the  several  papers  that  were  put 
before  him,  and  his  subconscious  cerebration  ejaculated 
fit  monosyllables  In  fit  and  proper  places  while  Barras' 
monologue  proceeded.  But  his  mind  dwelt  and 
hunted  with  the  chlvalric  knights  of  France.  His 
thoughts  soared  serenely  and  contentedly  through  a 
spacious  and  beautiful  universe. 

It  was  not  to  be  wondered  therefore  that  the  follow- 
ing morning  he  found  it  necessary,  a  little  shame- 
facedly, to  make  a  visit  Into  the  City  in  order  that  Mr. 
Barras'  ingenuity  might  anew  lead  his  somewhat 
quicker,  more  agile,  thoughts  through  the  tortuous 
maze  of  topographical  charm  and  mining  Intricacy. 
Yet  he  had  thereby  lost  what  ascendency  and  inde- 
pendence he  had  had,  and  he  was,  therefore,  the  more 
disposed  to  echo  Mr.  Barras'  subtle  intentions  in  the 
columns  of  the  Daily  Urgent. 

Little  he  thought,  however,  that  while  this  was  pro- 
ceeding Rose  was  receiving  no  less  than  an  Invitation 
to  marriage  from  a  quarter  unknown  to  him. 


XI 

The  southwester  was  laden  with  boisterous  invig- 
oration.  On  the  promenade,  beneath  the  mounded 
cliffs  of  Winmouth,  It  bore  sharp  salt  spray  in  its 
breath.  The  thud  and  break  of  mountainous  waves 
filled  the  air  with  noise  of  combat.  Great  clouds 
came,  borne  up  over  the  blue  heavens;  and  the  sun 
shone  fitfully,  these  weighty  galleons  on  the  deeps  of 
heaven  obscuring  its  radiant  visage  ever  and  anon. 


288  Broken  Arcs 

Far  away  to  the  horizon  could  be  seen  white  steeds  in 
revelry  and  chase,  one  upon  another  through  the  hiss- 
ing waters.  They  came  sweeping  along  to  do  battle 
with  the  verdant  monster  that  baffled  them.  They  did 
no  more  than  thud  on  his  shingly  toes.  He  laughed 
back  defiance  at  them.  Yet  still  they  came,  and  knew 
not  what  It  was  to  learn  defeat.  And  their  master, 
the  great  southwester,  cracked  his  airy  whip  in  their 
ears.  Stung  by  him  they  burst  their  anger,  and  then 
with  snarl  of  rage  receded  beneath  their  urgent  new- 
comers. And  as  the  sun  broke  radiantly  or  was  ob- 
scured In  gloom,  the  defiant  green  cliffs  laughed  in 
mockery  or  scowled  In  sullen  wrath. 

A  good  number  had  been  won  down  to  witness  the 
tumult  of  the  waves ;  and  among  them  was  Rose.  She 
found  wild  fascination  In  watching  these  form-flecked 
steeds,  breaking  before  her,  or  surging  inimitably  over 
the  deeps.  The  scene  called  to  something  In  her,  and 
gave  her  strange  joy  in  beholding.  She  was  kin  with 
It,  but  found  the  activity  of  her  soul  restricted  by  sym- 
pathy with  It.  Had  one  of  those  riotous  waves  a  soul, 
a  mind,  a  cognizance  and  wit,  gladly  would  she  have 
taken  such  a  life  to  live  to  the  full ! 

She  had  been  much  perplexed  on  Harry's  behalf. 
Her  sensitive  soul  had  detected  a  faint  shade  that  had 
passed  over  the  lyric  ardency  of  his  letters;  and  she 
knew  not  to  what  to  attribute  It.  And  she  had  come 
down  here  not  to  think  it  out,  but  to  let  the  thought 
resolve  itself  as  she  gazed  upon  a  scene  that  called 
mutual  sympathy  to  her. 

So  she  leant  on  the  rail  of  the  promenade  contem- 
plating the  scene  before  her,  when  an  unpleasant  voice 
sounded  In  her  ear — 

*'AhI  IVe  been  looking  for  you,  Mrs.  Foggettyl" 

She  turned  to  behold  the  form  and  visage  of  Mr. 


Cogitations  289 

Bevis  Urquhart.  She  was  silent  with  distaste  and  dis- 
may. 

"Nice  little  scene,  Isn't  it?  But  these  aren't  what 
I  call  waves.  A  typhoon  Is  the  occasion  to  see  waves 
— real  waves."  Among  the  attributes  that  he  dis- 
played for  her  hatred  of  him  was  a  disparagement  of 
whatever  scene  was  present  before  him  in  the  Interests 
of  some  hypothetical  scene  as  yet,  and  probably  never 
to  be,  beheld  by  her.  She  hated  his  physical  breadth 
and  stature ;  but  she  hated  even  more  this  experiential 
immensity  of  his. 

She  put  her  hands  behind  her  to  grip  the  rail  on 
which  she  had  leant,  while  she  surveyed  his  obnoxious 
figure.  An  overwhelming  desire  flushed  through  her 
to  strike  him.  It  seemed  the  only  way  to  be  quit  of 
him;  and  more  than  so,  it  seemed  the  only  fit  expres- 
sion of  her  attitude  of  nameless  fear  of  him.  With 
utmost  difficulty  she  desisted.  Her  thoughts  refused 
to  frame  to  words. 

He,  no  whit  abashed  by  the  manifest  repugnance 
before  him,  proceeded  to  further  speech.  The  objec- 
tion of  others  to  the  course  he  might  propose  on  their 
mutual  behalf  had  ever  been  a  matter  of  small  concern 
to  him.  The  world,  to  him,  was  a  contest  of  will  on 
will,  with  the  issue  to  the  stronger,  which,  he  won  in- 
telligence to  know,  was  frequently  synonymous  with 
the  more  weighty  and  implacable. 

"Do  you  mind  accompanying  me  this  way?"  he  said, 
and  pointed  westward. 

"I  must  be  getting  back,"  she  said,  with  more  insist- 
ence than  firmness.  "Back"  meant  to  her  eastward, 
and  was  therefore  a  haven. 

"But  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  on  a  most  urgent  mat- 
ter," said  he  calmly. 

"Can't  you  speak  here?"  said  she. 


290  Broken  Arcs 

"Hardly,"  he  replied. 

"I  really  must  get  back  now,"  she  said.  Her  man- 
ner was  hostile. 

His  reply  was  half  to  turn  westward  with  a  slight 
bow.  Having  accomplished  this,  he  stood  so,  waiting. 
There  are  certain  responses  of  obligation  between  unit 
and  unit  of  a  sociable  state.  He  gained  the  advantage 
of  discovering  his,  and  standing  patiently  to  her  to  ful- 
fil hers.  Her  response  in  kind  would  have  been  to 
slap  his  cheek  then  and  there.  It  would  have  regained 
the  social  equilibrium,  and  then  they  twain  could  have 
gone  their  ways  equal  and  therefore  free. 

But  she  felt  obligation  tug  at  her. 

"You're  most  rude,"  said  she,  as  she  stepped  by 
him. 

"Fm  sorry  you  think  that,"  he  said.  "You  will 
scarcely  think  that,  I  hope,  when  I  have  concluded 
what  I  wished  to  say." 

She  waited  for  him  to  begin,  but  he  showed  no  dis- 
position to  do  so.  She  stole  a  glance  up  at  him;  but 
his  countenance  was  as  immobile  as  ever.  He  trod 
firmly  beside  her,  silently,  magnificently.  She  felt 
overawed  by  this  immense  calm  of  his.  It  stifled  her 
rebelliousness,  and  hushed  her  irritation. 

"You  wished  to  speak  to  me  about  something,"  she 
said,  not  thinking  of  making  a  guess  at  his  mission. 

"Wait  till  we  are  further  ahead,"  said  he,  waving 
his  hand  forward. 

Then  he  lapsed  again  into  majesty  of  silence,  and 
again  she  went  beside  him  wondering  at  him.  It 
seemed  as  futile  to  resist  him  as  to  waken  heat  in  Arc- 
tic snows.  Certainly  it  defied  natural  means  and 
methods. 

Suddenly  he  turned  upon  her  and  said — 

"Mrs.  Foggetty,  I  wish  to  marry  you." 


Cogitations  291 

The  blow  fell  on  her  from  a  blue  sky.     They  were 
now  far  away  from  the  populace,  and  none  were  nigh 
to  witness  his  declaration.     It  had  been  given  with 
surprising  force,  causing  her  to  stop. 
*'I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  she. 

"It  indeed  is  so,"  he  said.  "I  have  long  had  this 
desire,  but  have  questioned  the  expediency  of  it  to  me. 
You  see,  I  have  long  been  accustomed  to  my  own  ways, 
to  the  enjoyment  of  an  unbroken  liberty.  Then  again, 
my  means,  which  are  ample  for  the  enjoyment  of  a 
single  man,  are  scarcely  what  you  might  call  opulency 
for  a  married  man.  These,  you  can  quite  see,  are 
serious  considerations  for  a  man  in  my  position.  But 
I  have  been  greatly  attracted  by  you;  I  must  admit  it. 
From  the  very  first  day  we  met  I  have  thought  you 
quite  charming.  In  short,  I  feel  I  must  make  you 
mine.  It  would  give  me  great  pride  to  make  you  my 
very  own.  When  can  I  come  up  and  speak  with  Mr. 
Bradley  on  the  subject?  I  assume  he  will  be  in  this 
afternoon." 

Rose  heard  this  dispassionate  weighing  of  the  bal- 
ances to  discover  which  side  the  true  self-interest  lay, 
with  growing  impatience,  an  impatience  that  mani- 
fested itself  by  the  tearing  of  a  handkerchief  inside 
her  muff.  When  he  had  concluded,  she  broke  out 
with  a  sharp  quiver  in  her  voice — 

"Are  you  aware  that  Tm  engaged?" 

He  looked  on  her  from  above,  with  a  shade  of  an- 
noyance on  his  face. 

"There's  no  occasion  for  temper,  I  think,"  he  said. 

It  was  this  trick  of  his  of  leaning  forth  to  handle  her 
own  bridle;  magisterially,  mightily,  to  withhold  her 
steed  from  being  spurred  to  a  splendid  gallop,  that 
baffled  her.     But  she  denied  baffling. 

"Mr.  Urquhart!"  said  she. 


292  Broken  Arcs 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"Were  you  not  aware  that  I  was  engaged  to  Mr. 
Denzll?" 

*'I  had  heard  something  of  Mr.  DenzU  being  a  very 
close  friend  of  yours." 

"Did  you  not  know  I  am  to  marry  him  as  soon  as 
we  can  manage  it?" 

"Oh,  yes;  indeed  I  had  knowledge  of  It.  But  that 
was  only  your  Intention  before  this  offer  of  mine." 

"Do  you  honestly  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Urquhart, 
that  you  expected  me  to  consider  your  offer?"  This 
man  disconcerted  her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon."     His  surprise  was  lofty. 

"Do  you  actually  mean  me  to  consider  your  offer  as 
really  meant?" 

"Assuredly.  I  insist  that  It  has  received  my  most 
careful  consideration.  I  cannot  Insist  too  strongly  on 
this." 

"I  assure  you  you  need  not  either." 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

"Mr.  Urquhart,  you  seem  to  assume  that  there  Is  no 
such  thing  as  love,  because,  I  suppose.  It  is  so  utterly 
foreign  to  your  nature.  Allow  me  to  Inform  you  then 
that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  repugnance." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  I  fear." 

"I  mean  this,  that  I  am  engaged  to  marry  Mr.  Den- 
zil  because  I  love  him,  because  he  In  poverty  would  be 
infinitely  preferable  to  me  than  Adonis  with  the  wealth 
of  Croesus " 

"Admirable!" 

"It  may  be  admirable,  and  It  may  not.  But  I  won't 
waste  my  time  explaining  these  finer  Issues  to  one  so 
obtuse  to  them  as  yourself.  Let  me  Inform  you  of  a 
cruder  fact.  If  I  did  not  propose  to  marry  Mr.  Den- 
zU because  I  loved  him  I  should  yet  despise  you  be- 


Cogitations  293 

cause  I  loathe  your  very  presence.  You  are  obnoxious 
to  me." 

**AgaIn  I  say,  Mrs.  Foggetty,  there's  no  occasion  to 
be  rude." 

"It  seems  the  only  way  I  can  reach  you." 

*'I  understand,  then,  I  must  postpone  my  offer." 

Rose  gazed  at  him  as  at  an  incomprehensible  mys- 
tery. She  flew  to  doubt  his  reason,  though  she  need 
not  have  journeyed  further  than  to  doubt  his  suscep- 
tibility. 

^'Postpone  It?     Why,  I  tell  you  I  despise  you!" 

"Then  I  will  wait  to  remake  my  offer  subsequently. 
In  the  meantime,  let  me  tell  you  I  have  carefully 
weighed  the  matter,  and  there  is  little  likelihood  of  my 
changing  my  mind.  It's  merely  a  question  of  now  or 
later." 

They  had  stood  facing  one  another  during  this  dia- 
logue; and  as  he  spoke  he  turned  half-about,  waiting 
for  her  to  join  him  for  their  walk  back.  She  stood 
still,  gazing  at  him  with  white  set  lips.  He  was  like 
one  of  the  dark  billows  before  them,  and  she  the  white 
soft  gull  beneath  It — but  with  the  softness  set  to 
rigour,  sternly  to  withstand  the  onslaught. 

"Let  us  turn  back,  Mrs.  Foggetty,"  said  he. 

"You  go  on.     I'll  wait,  and  follow  later,"  she  said. 

"I  would  wish  you  to  come  with  me,"  he  said. 

"I  would  rather  not,"  she  replied. 

"You  have  been  rude  enough  already,  it  seems  to 
me,"  he  said,  "without  your  adding  this  further  dis- 
courtesy to  the  list.  I  am  bound  to  assume  that  you 
are  not  altogether  remote  to  the  claims  of  common 
politeness,  and  therefore  I  request  you  to  accompany 
me  back  even  as  you  chose  to  accompany  me  here." 

He  buffeted  her,  she  felt.  It  was  as  though  he  took 
her,  and  cuffed  her  into  obedience;  and  though  she 


294  Broken  Arcs 

resented  the  treatment  with  a  whole  tingling  blood  and 
with  jangling  nerves,  she  felt  beaten  to  submission. 

**I  believe  I  shall  strike  you  one  of  these  days/*  she 
said,  as  she  turned  In  to  walk  with  him.  "Kindly 
don't  speak  to  me,"  she  added,  as  he  begun  to  thrust 
the  barque  of  conversation  on  to  the  seas  of  reminis- 
cence. But  It  was  unavailing;  he  would  not  be  gain- 
said; and  therefore  she  contented  herself  with  not 
hearing  him — or  rather,  with  not  distinguishing  what 
he  said  any  more  than  she  sought  to  distinguish  wave 
from  wave  In  the  roar  that  boomed  along  the  beach. 

When  home  she  flew  to  Inform  Mr.  Bradley  of  the 
indignity  done  her.  She  was  not  wont  to  seek  his 
advice  much  these  days,  confiding  rather  In  herself. 
She  could  not  tell  whence  the  change  came,  whether 
from  him  or  from  a  growth  in  her.  Yet  so  It  was; 
and  she  had  shrunk  from  seeking  him  overmuch.  But 
now  Indignation  quivered  In  her,  and  she  rushed  to  her 
old  confidence  and  faith  In  him  whom  she  termed 
father  more  truly  than  ever  she  had  known  the  utter- 
ance of  that  name. 

"So  it  has  come,  has  It?"  he  said,  and  smiled. 

"Did  you  know  It  would  come?"  She  was  amazed, 
astonished. 

"Well,  I  thought  it  not  unlikely,  I  must  say."  He 
seemed  somewhat  amused,  though  he  sought  to  dis- 
guise this,  seeing  her  agitation. 

"And  yet  you  permitted  us  to  know  the  obnoxious 
man?     Father!" 

"Well,  you  two,  you  and  Harry,  have  got  to  prove 
yourselves,  haven't  you?"  His  manner  was  firmly 
testful.  She  snuffed  from  afar  part  of  the  reason  why 
she  had  lost  touch  with  him.  She  asked  sympathy; 
he  gave  philosophy.  His  was  no  self-centred  philoso- 
phy; It  was  genuinely  sympathetic,  and  couched  in  the 


Cogitations  295 

interest  of  their  eventual  faith  in  each  other:  never- 
theless, it  was  age  presenting  its  wisdom  to  youth,  and 
rebuffing  youth  thereby.  He  went  on:  *'If  you  can't 
stand  a  few  buffets,  dear  girl,  it's  perhaps  a  poor  look- 
out for  afterwards.  The  same  of  him.  You're  both 
of  you  ultra-sensitive,  and  want  your  edges  blunted  a 
little." 

"Oh,  no;  no  I"  she  cried  out. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"That's  just  what  we  don't  want.  Why  should  all 
the  colour  of  life  go,  just  because  you  think  grey  wears 
better?  We  want  colour.  I  want  colour.  Life  is 
colour." 

"Then,  my  dear  girl,  have  your  colour.  Only  be 
colour;  don't  paint."  He  regarded  her  uncompre- 
hending attention  awhile.  "Paint  chips  off;  if  the 
very  fabric  of  a  thing  is  colour  then  it  lasts.  There's 
something  chipped  off  you  to-day."  He  was  silent 
awhile  again,  that  this  might  infiltrate  and  be  satu- 
rated. "For  my  part,  I  prefer  grey,  but  I  admit  it's 
accepting  failure.  Life  chipped  off  all  my  paint,  and 
I  like  a  plain  workaday  world.  If  you're  going  in  for 
the  bigger  thing,  do  so!  But  let  it  be  one  or  the 
other.     That's  preaching,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  father!" 

"Well,  even  that's  good  o'  Sunday  mornings,"  he 
said,  and  smiled. 

She  let  the  effect  of  pedagogy  pass  on  the  wind,  then 
said — 

"You're  not  going  to  let  him  call  again?" 

"Not  if  you  wish  it.  You  would  do  better  to  face 
it  out  with  him,  I  think."  Half-intelligently  he  was 
endeavouring  to  persuade  her  to  recognize  the  actu- 
alities of  existence.  He  saw  that  they  pricked  her 
into   far  space.     The  romance  her  soul  craved   for 


2g6  Broken  Arcs 

floated  In  aery  blue  of  heaven,  Instead  of  having  broad 
roots  expanding  in  brown  earth,  and  thence  achieving 
to  transcendental  heights. 

But  she  shrank  from  him  as  from  another  actuality 
to  be  faced.  She  left  the  room.  Nevertheless,  his 
sage  counsel  was  a  reproof  to  her.  It  taunted  her, 
she  thought,  with  insincerity.  She  forebore  telling 
Harry  anything  of  the  strange  wooing  she  had  re- 
ceived. 


XII 

Harry  had  sturdily  resisted  the  siren  voice  that 
sang  in  his  brain  tempting  him  to  a  certain  flat  In  Ken- 
sington. Over  a  week  had  passed,  and  he  began  to 
conceive  of  himself  as  another  St.  Anthony,  having 
won  through  frailty  to  probity.  An  urgent  epistle  of 
entreaty  had  almost  vanquished  him;  almost,  but  not 
quite. 

Then  he  received  the  following  letter — 

*'My  Dear  Mr.  Denzil, 

"So  you  are  just  like  the  others;  no  different. 
And  what  a  loss  for  me,  because  I  thought  you  were 
kind  and  nice.  I  thought  you  were  sorry  for  me,  just 
for  me.  But,  you  see,  you  weren't,  were  you?  You 
all,  all  you  men,  try  and  push  a  girl  further  down  the 
hill  when  perhaps  a  pal  would  help  her. 

"I  may  tell  you,  dear  boy,  that  I've  tried  for  two 
positions  this  week.  And,  of  course,  they  wouldn't 
have  me.  When  I  told  them  where  I  lived,  that  was 
quite  enough  for  one  of  them.  The  other  started 
asking,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  have  the  two  things 
mixed  up,  and  so  there  was  an  end  of  that. 


Cogitations  297 

"Why  won't  you  come  round  and  help  me?  Are 
you  so  good,  and  I  so  bad?  Because  you  were  kind 
to  me  before.  Come  round  to-morrow  night;  I  shall 
wait  for  you.  I  had  almost  a  mind  to  call  for  you 
to-day.     Come  now;  and  don't  fail  me! 

"Your  very  sinful, 

"GWEN." 

Pity  and  tenderness  gushed  In  him.  Besides, 
thought  he,  I  shall  not  fail  as  I  nearly  did  before,  and 
here  Is  a  real  chance  of  giving  a  bit  of  kindly  aid. 
Indignation  at  the  social  conditions  that  had  sentenced 
this  girl  to  her  manner  of  life,  and  then  ostracized  her 
because  she  had  obeyed  its  dictates,  waxed  hot  in  him. 
"I'll  go,"  he  muttered:  "It's  enough  that  everybody 
should  avoid  her  without  my  joining  their  cowardly 
number.     I'll  go,  and  we'll  have  a  chat  together." 

Having  come  to  this  resolve,  he  drew  out  a  multi- 
plicity of  papers  that  had  been  supplied  him  by  Barras 
and  Webber-Colquhoun,  reached  down  a  couple  of 
new  tomes  on  geology  (In  the  pages  of  which  were 
white  slips.  In  evidence  of  his  studious  progress,  and 
the  fortunate  stages  discovered  thereupon)  and  sat 
down  to  the  writing  of  his  fourth  article  In  praise  of 
the  new  oil  development  company.  The  subject  was 
working  In  his  mind  like  the  higher  things  of  imagina- 
tive truth.  The  creative  spirit  moved  In  him.  These 
details  about  him  were  but  data  out  of  which  he  con- 
structed a  larger  and  more  potent  theme.  Strange 
bricks  had  been  given  him;  and  the  zest  In  his  own 
labours  was  erecting  a  structure  of  winning  beauty  out 
of  them.  The  advertising  manager  of  the  Daily 
Urgent  was  half  enchanted,  half  in  trepidation  at  the 
articles.  The  editor  had  been  perturbed.  But 
Messrs.  Barras  and  Webber-Colquhoun  were  swelled 


298  Broken  Arcs 

to  the  limits  of  satisfaction:  particularly  Barras,  who 
washed  his  hands  in  air  after  a  sufficient  perusal  of 
them.  He  had  seen  each  before  printing,  and  though' 
he  had  discovered  matters  in  them  that  he  would  have 
wished  away,  yet  he  knew  human  nature,  and  was  not 
disposed  to  ruffle  a  flowing  Imagination.  He  suffered 
them. 

That  evening  Harry  trod  bravely  round  to  make  a 
call  on  Miss  Gwendoline  Farrer.  She  received  him 
joyfully. 

"So  you  have  come,"  sang  she.  "YouVe  just  a 
dear  boy.     I  knew  you  would." 

Harry  was  abashed,  not  knowing  what  to  reply. 
Now  that  she  stood  before  his  eyes,  it  seemed  more 
clear  to  his  thought  that  he  had  come  rather  for  her- 
self than  for  her  aid.  He  accepted  it  at  that,  but 
found  it  difficult  to  express  it  so  to  her. 

**Well,  I  had  to,  after  your  letter,  hadn't  I?"  They 
were  treading  an  ill-lit  passage.  He  forebore  passing 
his  arm  about  her,  though  the  thought  to  do  so 
whelmed  him. 

"So  that  was  all  1"  she  said.  She  leant  against  him, 
and  her  glance  travelled  his  face.  "You  didn't  want 
to  see  me,  then — Harry?" 

He  did  not  reply. 

"Did  you?"  she  asked  again,  and  passed  her  arm 
within  his. 

"Of  course  I  did,"  said  he.  "But  I  oughtn't  to," 
he  added. 

"Oh  I"  she  murmured. 

Leaving  him  she  fled  into  a  further  room,  to  greet 
his  arrival  boisterously,  with  a  ring  in  her  voice  of  that 
irony  he  recognized  so  clearly.  It  surprised  him  to 
think  how  vividly  his  memory  had  retained  the  small- 
est impressions  of  her. 


Cogitations  299 

"Well,  and  how*s  your  girl?"  she  cried  out. 

**0h,  she's  well,  thanks,"  he  said,  seeking  to  turn 
the  edge  of  her  remark. 

"Heard  from  her  to-day?"  she  asked  again  per- 
sistently. 

*Tes." 

**You  get  a  letter  from  her  every  day?"  She  with- 
held him  from  her  with  a  chair  interposed  betwixt 
them  while  she  pressed  her  questions. 

"Yes."  He  watched  her  closely  as  a  fencer  might 
an  urgent  rival. 

"And  you  write  every  day?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  she's  a  lucky  girl."  She  left  the  chair 
that  she  had  held  abruptly  between  them,  and  turned 
with  a  weary  gesture  to  regard  the  burning 
coals.  "I  haven't  heard  from  my  boy  for  over  a 
week." 

"But  I  thought  you  didn't  like  him,"  he  said,  going 
over  to  her. 

"No,  nor  do  I.  But  it's  the  next  best  thing."  She 
sighed.     Her  manner  was  listless. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  caressed  it. 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  sorrow's  cheap."  Her  face  was  averted  from 
his  intent  gaze.  Her  profile,  lit  by  the  warm  glow  of 
the  fire,  was  surprisingly  beautiful. 

"But  it  doesn't  matter  about  me,  does  it?"  she  said, 
looking  round  at  him.  As  she  looked  she  saw  in  his 
face  what  her  quick  divination  judged  to  be  the  weari- 
ness of  uninterest,  so,  slapping  his  cheek  smartly,  she 
sprang  away,  saying:  "Oh,  you  silly  old  mopey  boy, 
do  let's  be  gay  I  you're  making  me  quite  melancholy. 
So  your  girl's  quite  well,  is  she  ?  Got  a  photograph  of 
her?" 


300  Broken  Arcs 

His  hand  half  travelled  to  his  breast  pocket,  but 
stopped  halfway. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  he. 

"Oh  I"  she  said  coldly — and  turning  to  the  side- 
board she  extracted  a  box  of  chocolates.  "I  won't 
ask  you  to  have  any,"  she  said,  as  she  helped  herself 
to  some. 

"Gwen,  what  have  I  done?"  he  said,  going  over  to 
her,  and  laying  a  hand  on  her  shoulder.  His  manner 
was  shamefaced. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  coldly. 

"Well,  I  thought  perhaps  she  wouldn't  like  it."  He 
spoke  awkwardly. 

"Let  me  see  it!"  She  stretched  out  her  hand  Im- 
periously. 

He  extracted  a  leather  case  from  his  pocket,  and 
held  It  hesitatingly  in  his  hand. 

"You  needn't  show  it  me  If  you  think  I'm  not  a 
respectable  member  of  society,"  she  said,  and  there 
was  a  quaver  in  her  voice. 

He  held  it  toward  her.  Opening  It,  she  gazed  on 
the  tinted  photograph  that  lay  within  it.  She  scruti- 
nized It  coldly,  keenly.  Then  swiftly  she  shot  past 
him  with  It,  and  stood  before  a  further  mirror  regard- 
ing herself.  Then  she  held  up  the  portrait  beside  her 
own  face,  and  Harry  could  see  her  eyes  In  the  mirror 
glancing  quickly  to  and  fro  from  the  reflection  of  her- 
self to  the  reflection  of  the  portrait. 

"Harry,  here!"  she  called  him 

He  went  over  to  her.  As  he  did  so  her  left  hand 
went  up,  feeling  for  the  arrival  of  his  face. 

"Look  I"  she  said,  and  pressed  his  face  against 
hers. 

He  looked,  but  could  see  no  more  than  the  juxta- 
position of  the  reflection  of  two  faces,  one  in  large, 


Cogitations  301 

and  the  other  In  small.  He  did  not  like  the  propin- 
quity. It  Irked  him.  He  looked  away.  Looking 
back  again,  he  saw  that  her  gaze  was  on  him  in  the 
mirror.  He  looked  eagerly  Into  her  eyes,  and  let  his 
eyes  travel  over  the  reflection  of  her  face.  He  forgot 
the  likeness  that  was  still  being  held  beside  his  face. 

"Take  It!"  she  said,  and  held  him  back  his  portrait. 
There  was  triumph  in  her  voice.  It  said  that  she 
had  found  nothing  In  It  to  be  afraid  or  jealous  of,  and 
his  ear  caught  this  tone  In  it. 

Facing  him  then,  she  linked  her  fingers  in  his,  and 
thrusting  him  back  upon  a  capacious  chair,  she  bent 
him  down  Into  It.  Retaining  possession  of  her  hands 
he  drew  her  after  him.  Laying  her  face  against  his, 
she  hugged  fiercely. 

"Oh,  you  are  a  dear  boy,"  said  she. 

"Am  I?"  he  whispered,  his  arms  about  her,  and 
furious  blood  In  his  veins. 

She  drew  closer  and  yet  closer  to  him.  Then 
suddenly  she  burst  away.  Dragging  another  chair 
to  a  position  opposite  the  hearth,  she  sat  herself 
In  it. 

"Let's  do  Darby  and  Joan!"  she  said,  and  then 
began  crooning  softly,  with  an  extended  digit  waving 
the  time  solemnly — 

"Darby,  dear,  we  are  old  and  gray. 
And  the  summer's  passing  another  way." 

"No,  that's  not  it,  is  It,  my  dear?"  she  added,  and 
laughed  out  merrily. 

"Come  here!"  he  said  commandingly.  * 

She  mocked  at  him. 

"We're  playing  at  being  married,"  said  she.  "I 
may  play  at  It,  I  suppose.  This  Is  our  home.  Now, 
Darby,  old  man,  what  would  you  like  for  your  sup- 


302  Broken  Arcs 

per?  Because  you'll  just  have  to  get  It  ready  for 
yourself." 

He  stroked  his  thigh  contemplatively;  looked  at  it, 
and  then  looked  at  her. 

"Why,  my  dear  boy,  you  never  do  that  when  you're 
married,"  she  laughed. 

He  jumped  up,  and  strode  over  to  her.  She  fled 
him,  mocking  him  from  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"Gwen,"  he  called,  "come  to  me  I" 

"Fm  going  to  get  supper,"  she  replied.  "Will  you 
come  with  me.  Darby?"  She  danced  and  tripped 
about  the  remote  end  of  the  table  In  mockery  of  him. 

"Right!"     And  thus  off  they  went  for  that  purpose. 

It  seemed  unaccountably,  mystically  strange  to 
Harry,  assisting  this  girl  In  those  domestic  services 
that  his  mind  Inevitably  associated  with  the  upkeep  of 
a  home,  and  which  his  imagination  had  faced  as  the 
inevitable  condition  of  the  early  days  of  the  domestic 
venture  which  he  nursed  for  the  future  prospect  of  his 
hopes.  Even  to  the  numerous  Interruptions  arising 
from  the  transient  interest  of  caresses,  tender  saluta- 
tions and  embraces,  it  all  went  the  way  his  imagina- 
tion had  conjured  for  his  future.  The  fact  sat  like  a 
gloom  on  his  mind.  He  was  glad  when  the  prepara- 
tions were  concluded,  and  they  sat  at  their  meal. 

Her  eyes  were  upon  him  as  they  sat  so  in  participa- 
tion of  supper. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked  he,  seeing  re- 
flection stirring  in  the  deeps  of  her  eyes. 

"Not  quite  so  much  like  Theodora  in  a  London  flat, 
is  it?"  Her  manner  was  quieter,  and  a  soft  smile 
played  about  her  lips,  like  the  ripple  waked  on  a  pool 
by  a  fish  at  play  beneath.  Recollection  was  at  stir 
within  her,  and  a  strange  hunger  possessed  her. 

"Isn't  it?"  he  said,  quite  simply.     "I'm  glad." 


Cogitations  303 

"No,  you  don't  make  me  feel  like — like — you  know, 
like  I  am  really,  I  suppose.''  She  seemed  a  little 
awkward;  strangely  so.  "YouVe  different  to  every- 
body else.  They  all  make  me  feel  like — like  I  really 
am.  You  don't,  you  make  me  think  myself  quite  a 
human  being  again.  And  that's  why  I  like  you  so 
much." 

"I'm  glad,"  he  said  again,  with  quiet  simplicity. 
Yet  as  he  looked  on  her  face,  smitten  as  It  was  with 
strange  reflection,  a  quick  eager  look  came  Into  his 
eyes,  and  he  turned  them  away  so  that  she  should  not 
see  It. 

The  meal  over,  she  flung  herself  on  the  sofa,  and 
called  him  to  her. 

"Don't!"  he  cried,  looking  away.  He  dared  not 
let  her  see  his  eyes. 

"Harry!"  she  called  softly,  "come  and  sit  down 
here,  there's  room  for  you."  She  moved  further 
over. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  quick,  short  breathing.  "Let's 
go  and  sit  as  we  were  sitting  before.  Come!"  He 
held  out  his  hand  for  her,  glancing  hastily  over 
her.  Tension  was  demonstrable  in  every  linea- 
ment. 

She  took  his  hand,  and  tugged  him  down  to  her. 
He  pulled  reluctantly  away,  but  she  persisted  until  he 
was  upon  her,  when  she  quickly  put  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  kissing  him  passionately.  Quivering  In  every 
limb  he  pressed  a  kiss  down  upon  her  lips,  till  they 
were  nearly  breathless  from  it. 

Then  he  sprang  away  with  a  cry. 

"I  must  go.  Gwen,  I  must  go.  I've  got  to  get 
back."  His  back  was  toward  her,  and  an  ague  seemed 
to  have  seized  his  limbs,  such  was  the  tension  in  which 
he  held  himself. 


304  Broken  Arcs 

She  sprang  after  him. 

"Harry!  dear!  don't  go!  Why  should  you? 
There's  no  need.  Let's  play  at  Darby  and  Joan  right 
through." 

He  went  quickly  away  from  her,  toward  his  coat, 
which  on  his  arrival,  he  had  flung  over  a  further  chair. 
She  clung  to  his  arm,  her  face  pressed  against  the 
sleeve  of  his  coat. 

"Harry!"  she  called,  and  there  was  laughter  in  her 
voice. 

He  looked  down  upon  her,  to  see  her  eyes  and  face 
quick  with  merriment.  He  attempted  to  draw  his 
arm  away  from  her,  and  the  agitation  that  worked 
in  him  moved  a  shadow  over  his  face. 

"Harry,"  she  said,  with  gentle  waves  of  mirth  rip- 
pling through  her  words,  "I  believe  you're  afraid  of 
me  Me!  Poor  me!  Oh,  Harry!"  She  looked  up 
at  him  with  laughing  face. 

"I  must  go,"  said  he  firmly,  more  master  of  himself 
now.  "Don't  keep  me,  Gwen,  I've  got  a  lot  of  work 
to  do." 

Her  eye  travelled  slowly  over  to  the  timepiece,  that 
pointed  the  hour  as  toward  midnight,  and  laughed  a 
low  sly  laugh.  He  could  not  but  laugh,  too,  to  see  his 
excuse  so  ruthlessly  exposed. 

"Then  if  I  let  you  go,  will  you  promise  to  come  and 
see  me  again?" 

"Yes." 

She  looked  up  at  him  through  half-closed  eyes,  with 
a  slow  smile. 

"How  do  I  know  you  will?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  said  I  will,"  said  he,  with  attempt  at  dig- 
nity. 

"Oh!  but  you  weren't  coming  before,  though  you 
promised." 


Cogitation^  305 

He  looked  guilt-consclous. 

"I  will,  Gwen.  I  really  promise  I  will,"  he  pro- 
tested. 

She  stood  before  him,  still  smiling  inscrutably. 

"Come!'*  said  she,  "let's  have  one  more  kiss,  a  long 
one. 

She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  he  bent  over 
her  firmly  and  with  strength.  She  clung  to  him  with 
closed  eyes. 

"Harry!"  she  whispered,  freeing  herself  awhile. 

Releasing  her  violently,  and  picking  up  hat  and 
stick,  he  fled  from  the  flat,  and  down  the  stairs. 

Outside  the  house,  he  stood,  looking  up  at  the  light 
that  indicated  the  room  he  lately  had  been  in.  The 
night  was  dark  and  still  about  him.  He  trembled, 
and  it  was  evident  that  conflicts  broke  through  his 
mind.  A  muttered  exclamation  escaped  his  lips;  and 
he  forthwith  fled  down  the  street,  running  with  fury 
of  speed.     He  stopped  not  till  he  reached  Chelsea. 

Miss  Gwendoline  Farrer  had  witnessed  his  escape 
with  amazement.     Then  she  laughed  merrily. 

"Oh,  what  funny  things  meruare!"  she  exclaimed, 
flinging  herself  into  the  large  chair.  She  sat  musing 
on  woman's  natural  aptitudes  for  conquest  over  the 
lords  of  creation.  "But  I  like  Harry,"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  must  have  him,  I  think  I  could  love  him;  I  really 
think  so."  She  stood  up,  and  her  eye  fell  on  Harry's 
coat.  "Oh,  he  has  left  his  coat,"  she  declared,  kneel- 
ing on  the  chair  she  had  sat  in,  her  chin  resting  on  its 
back.  She  noticed  that  it  was  different  to  the  one  he 
had  worn  before:  better.  "He'll  have  to  come  back 
sooner  or  later,  at  any  rate,  for  I  won't  send  it,"  she 
exclaimed,  as  she  danced  about  the  room.  Then, 
flinging  herself  carelessly  on  the  piano-stool,  she  be- 
gan to  vamp  cheap  airs. 


3o6  Broken  Arcs 


XIII 

"It  seems  we  have  struck  oil/*  It  was  Mr.  Gerald 
Barras  that  spoke.  He  was  standing  In  his  partner's 
room,  astride,  before  the  fire,  reading  the  last  of 
Harry's  articles. 

Mr.  Richard  Webber-Colquhoun  looked  up  from 
a  society  paper  that  he  had  been  idly  scanning,  with 
quick  Intentness  at  the  speaker's  face  to  see  if  he  had 
a  double  meaning  with  his  words.  It  was  an  ex- 
tremely dubious  matter  how  much  oil  the  eventual 
possessors  of  their  scrip  would  strike.  To  Mr.  Web- 
ber-Colquhoun, however,  it  was  one  thing  to  achieve 
this  happy  device  for  the  coining  of  wealth,  it  was 
quite  another  to  joke  on  it.  It  was  indelicate.  But 
his  scrutiny  of  Barras'  face  left  him  with  the  convic- 
tion that  the  phrase  was  merely  unfortunate.  He 
said — 

"What's  the  position  of  affairs  this  morning?  Have 
you  rung  up  Edgar's?" 

"A  hundred  per  cent.,  my  dear  chap,  and  two  days 
to  allotment.  We're  well  over-subscribed,  but  Edgar 
thinks  It  just  as  well  to  let  It  go  on.  I  have  five  others 
asking  allotment  on  my  behalf.     You  alright?" 

Webber-Colquhoun  nodded.  Discussion  of  this 
subject  he  was  averse  to. 

"Of  course.  It's  partly,  or  even  largely,  the  recru- 
descence of  the  boom.  But  still,  to  be  fair,  we  owe  a 
lot  to  these  articles  of  Denzil's.  They're  just  admira- 
ble. They've  been  talked  about  in  the  City.  For  all 
we  know  they  may  have  brought  the  boom  back  again. 
By  Jove  I  I  think  I'll  double  my  presentation  to  him. 
Will  you?" 

"I'm  game  if  you  are." 


Cogitations  .30'2 

"Done  I  ^  We'll  write  a  letter  to-day."  He  spolce 
with  the  air  of  a  man  that  sought  to  burn  bridges  be- 
hind him  while  the  charitable  mood  flushed  over  him. 
Barras  called  In  a  pale  damsel  and  dictated  the  let- 
ter. Then  he  turned  to  a  re-perusal  of  the  article, 
presumably  to  keep  his  mood  of  generosity  at  the 
point  of  heat.  His  partner  meanwhile  was  gazing 
unlnterestedly  out  of  the  window  across  at  an  office 
opposite,  over  an  interposing  pit  structured  to  let  in 
requisite  llght,^  where  a  bald  head  with  a  pathetic  grey 
fringe  about  It  was  patiently  bent  over  a  portentous 
volume,  in  direction  of  ancient  fingers  holding  a  pen. 
He  watched  this  picture  with  a  morbid  interest. 
Thoughts  of  Harry  flitted  through  his  brain.  Harry, 
this  ancient  drudge  and  he,  had  a  strangely  significant 
grouping  In  his  mind  that  he  could  not  find  an  intel- 
lectual relation  for.     It  perplexed  him. 

"I  like  this  chap  Denzll,''  he  said  suddenly,  still 
watching  the  old  man.  "When  do  we  see  him 
next?" 

^  "In  three  days'  time,  day  after  allotment.  We  dine 
with  him,  you  know,  to  give  him  his  scrip." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  think  I'll  get  him  to  come  up  to  my 
place.     He's  a  decent  chap,  I  think." 

Harry  was  surprised  the  following  morning  to  get 
the  letter  jointly  signed  by  Barras  and  Webber-Colqu- 
houn.  It  made  him  uneasy.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  must  have  rendered  them  too  signal  a  favour.  If 
this  was  so.  It  seemed  to  follow  with  a  strange  and 
disquieting  logic  that  he  must  have  served  Truth  some- 
what 111.  The  consequences  of  his  articles  made  him 
uneasy;  their  possible  consequences  made  him  alarmed 
and  apprehensive.  A  curious  letter  from  Webber-Col- 
quhoun  in  accompaniment,  thanking  him  for  his  arti- 
cles and  reminding  him  of  the  appointment  to  dine 


3o8  Broken  Arcs 

with  them,  seemed,  however,  to  put  a  personal  con- 
struction on  It,  and  It  quieted  him. 

There  was  also  a  letter  from  Gwen.  He  had  twice 
been  up  to  see  her  so  as  to  recover  his  overcoat.  At- 
.trlbutlng  his  former  weakness  to  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness he  had  chosen  the  early  afternoon  for  these  visits. 
But  she  had  been  out  on  both  occasions.  On  the  lat- 
ter of  the  two  occasions,  however,  he  had  been  accosted 
by  a  gaunt  charwoman,  structured  solely  of  bone  and 
ineradlcably  dirty  skin,  with  unnatural  hair  and  mutely 
indignant  eyes.  This  gloomy  specimen  of  femininity 
had  disclaimed  knowledge  of  the  Internal  economy  of 
the  flat,  and  refused  to  come  to  Harry's  aid.  He 
protested  his  former  waste  visit,  but  to  no  avail.  By 
her  means,  nevertheless,  Gwen  had  come  to  learn  of 
his  visits. 

She  had  written  him  several  times,  and  had  had  let- 
ters In  return  expressing  solicitude  on  her  behalf,  but 
no  visits.  The  combat  gave  her  a  keen  zest,  how- 
ever. It  pricked  her  to  conquest.  She  was  free  of 
the  Irritation  of  possible  failure,  for  had  she  not  the 
final  tactical  advantage  of  being  In  possession  of  his 
best  overcoat?  It  won  her  to  patience,  for  patience 
meant  the  prolongation  6f  this  zest. 

He  had  determined  to  avoid  her  presence.  It 
seemed  his  only  safety.  Let  It  not  be  Imagined  that  It 
was  easy  for  him.  It  meant  sometimes  a  torture  of 
conflict.  But  he  used  his  portrait  of  Rose  for  talis- 
man, and  It  came  Into  use  with  perilous  frequency.  This 
present  letter  from  the  taunting  charmer,  however, 
bade  him  know,  with  sundry  deft  mockeries,  that  If  he 
wished  his  garment  he  would  need  to  go  over  for  It. 
He  determined,  if  need  be,  heroically  to  forego  the 
garment. 

He  threw  on  the  overcoat  of  lesser  value,  because  of 


Cogitatiorii]  309 

greater  antiquity,  and  sallied  round  to  seek  Battersby's 
advice.     That  gentleman  hailed  him  with  glee. 

"Haven't  seen  you  for  the  deuce  of  a  time.  That's 
not  to  say  I  haven't  read  you.  In  fact,  you're  the  ad- 
miration of  the  office." 

Harry  found  It  strangely  difficult  to  speak  of  his 
innocent  visits  in  the  capacity  of  a  chlvalric  knight  to 
a  damsel  In  distress.  It  seemed  easy  over  his  own 
breakfast  table,  which  at  least  Is  a  token  of  his  desire 
for  honesty.  But  the  very  aspect  of  Battersby  struck 
cross-lights  of  meaning  over  his  purity  of  Intention.  It 
was  liable  to  misconstruction.  He  would  not  speak 
of  It.     He  said  therefore — 

"What  do  you  think  of  them?"  referring  to  the 
articles. 

"Great  stuff!  You've  made  fiction  of  them.  It'll 
be  the  devil's  own  humour  if  it  fails  to  fulfil  expecta- 
tions. You'll  be  the  most  run-after  man  in  London. 
One  or  two  may  blame  you,  but  you'll  be  a  made  man." 

"I  only  thought  of  It  in  that  light  to-day,"  said 
Harry,  with  knit  brows,  "and  it  rather  worried  me. 
I  shan't  know  what  to  do  If  it's  all  false." 

"False?  Tosh!  You've  served  Ideal  truth.  You've 
made  a  Candida  Oil  Development  Company  in  the 
heavens.  'Pon  my  word,  it's  a  kind  of  Platonic 
achievement.  I  congratulate  you.  The  vendors  of 
the  actual  claim  are  nothing  to  you:  their  efforts  are 
touched  with  mundanelty,  soiled  with  failure,  may  be; 
yours  is  eternally  perfect.  If  that  Isn't  creation,  well, 
then,  creation's  a  meaningless  word  to  me.  You're  an 
Artist,  Denzil,  with  a  capital  Alpha." 

"You're  perilously  near  raillery,  Battersby,  old  chap. 
I  may  tell  you  in  extenuation  of  my  deed  that  I'm  genu- 
inely concerned.  I  pushed  on  unthinkingly.  Creator's 
zest,  I  suppose.     But  now  I'm  worried.     I  felt  the 


310  Broken  Arcs 

noose  on  my  neck  this  morning.'*  He  felt  It  the  more 
now  because  he  could  not  find  It  In  him  to  tell  his  friend 
what  had  brought  revelation  to  him, 

''Don't  be!"  replied  the  other.  *Tou're  alright. 
You  should  hear  what  some  of  the  men  in  the  office 
say  about  them.     Got  any  more  to  do?" 

"I've  got  another  firm,  yes.  But  I'll  go  more  ten- 
derly with  that." 

"And  spoil  your  worth  thereby." 

"I'll  chance  that." 

"Well,  well!  Anyway,  enthusiasm's  the  salt  of  the 
earth,  even  though  It  be  mistaken." 

Harry  caught  the  note  of  reproof  in  his  friend's 
voice,  and  left  feeling  disturbed  and  unhappy.  A 
radiant  letter  from  Rose  that  morning  added  to  his 
gloom.  For  it  was  in  reply  to  one  of  his  in  which  he 
had  spoken  of  their  marriage  as  a  prospectively  early 
event.  She  had  written,  too,  in  eager  appreciation 
of  his  articles,  which  had  been  devoured  with  interest 
at  Winmouth.  It  all  seemed  to  him  now  as  portentous 
of  ill.  His  imagination  caused  it  to  swell  to  such  dila- 
tion that  it  expunged  the  gaiety  of  the  day. 

He  determined  to  go  round  and  see  his  chief  at  the 
'Daily  Urgent. 

This  gentleman  was  sympathetically  attentive  to 
Harry.  It  was  evident  the  matter  had  already  en- 
gaged his  thought.  He  saw  Harry  was  distressed, 
however;  and  as  it  meant  good  business  for  him  to 
keep  Harry  in  clean  power,  he  did  not  tell  him  that  the 
Editor  had  sailed  on  him  with  broadsides  of  query 
only  the  evening  before.  He  had  a  shrewd  eye  to 
eventual  business,  had  this  Advertising  Manager  of  the 
London  Daily  Urgent,  and  therefore  he  sought  to  mol- 
lify Harry's  wound,  leaving  the  wound  to  be  its  own 
lesson  for  the  future. 


Cogitations  311 

"Well,  you  wrote,  having  all  the  figures  and  details 
before  you,  on  which  you  based  your  articles.  I,  too, 
investigated  the  material  before  you.  It  would  be  too 
foolish  to  expect  more.  If  there's  any  mistake,  the 
responsibility  lies  with  the  promoters." 

"Yes,''  said  Harry,  ''but  it's  all  so  much  a  question 
of  colour.  Just  the  very  phrasing,  the  point  of  view 
taken,  the  selection  of  material,  that's  what  makes 
writing,  and  that's  what  works  the  necessary  influence 
on  the  reader's  mind.  By  that  test,  the  responsibility 
is  mine." 

*'But  you  did  your  best.     No  man  can  do  more." 

Harry  smiled. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  he.  "That's  rather  just  it.  I 
sort  of  feel  I  shouldn't  have  put  out  my  best.  But, 
by  that  token,  I  shouldn't  have  taken  it  up  at  all.  Yet, 
if  one  adopted  that  policy  right  through  life,  what 
would  one  do?" 

"You  look  like  finishing  up  with  metaphysical  fas- 
tidiousness." 

"I  do  rather,  don't  I?" 

"Besides,  you're  assuming  that  the  Company's  not 
worth  it;  a  poor  chance  at  the  best.  It  may  turn  out 
a  magnificent  investment.  Come  to  that,  it's  a  poor 
job  to  be  fastidious  when  it's  Company  promoting  on 
the  carpet." 

"One  is  rather  apt  to  look  on  the  worst  side  of 
things.     It's  the  delusions  of  life,  I  suppose." 

"In  fact,  there's  another  oil  boom  on.  Don't  be 
morbid,  Denzil.  We  want  business."  There  was  a 
touch  of  steel  in  his  voice  that  braced  Harry.  It 
caused  him  to  leave  the  office  thinking  no  more  of 
gloomy  prognostications. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  met  Barras  and  Webber- 
Colquhoun  a  few  nights  later  for  the  anticipated  din- 


312  Broken  Arcs 

ner  he  determined  to  speak  with  them  delicately  on  the 
subject.  It  would  demand  considerable  finesse,  and 
therefore  he  did  no  more  than  come  to  the  decision, 
making  no  plans,  determining  to  leave  occasion  to 
proffer  the  opportunity. 

Barras  greeted  him  with  effusion;  Webber-Colqu- 
houn  with  a  courtly  attention  that  was  Infinitely  more 
moving  to  Harry.  The  latter  said  as  he  greeted 
him — 

"I'm  afraid  FU  have  to  do  you  the  discourtesy  of 
setting  a  time-limit  to  our  table-cheer.  I  have  to  at- 
tend a  most  important  reception  this  evening,  and  I 
must  leave  here  at  ten,  not  a  moment  later.  But  I 
would  very  much  like  you  to  come  and  see  me  at  my 
place." 

*'Thanks;  I  should  like  to,"  said  Harry.  This  man 
had  repelled  him  at  first;  but  now  he  caught  himself 
moved  by  him  In  a  curious  way. 

"Well,  we'll  make  an  arrangement  to  that  end," 
said  the  other,  leading  his  way  into  a  gaily-lit  room 
that  murmured  with  the  sound  of  voices,  the  necessary 
cadence  being  given  to  the  chatter  by  a  far  musician 
that  discoursed  a  violin  Prelslled  to  an  Inattentive 
people. 

Having  discovered  their  table,  and  being  seated  at 
it,  Barras,  with  kingly  ostentation,  extracted  a  blue 
envelope  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  it  to  Harry, 
saying — 

"I  think  you'll  find  that  alright  and  shipshape,  Mr. 
Denzil,  in  accordance  with  our  two  letters.  Don't 
trouble  to  look  through  it  now.  If  you  wouldn't  mind 
sending  on  a  receipt  for  it  In  due  course  of  time." 

"I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you  both,"  said  Harry, 
taking  It.     "I  suppose  the  Company's  alright." 

"Subscribed  three  times  over  day  before  allotment," 


Cogitations  313 

said  Barras  enthusiastically.  "Each  of  those  shares 
is  worth  twice  its  nominal  value.  But  I  suppose  youVe 
seen  the  prices." 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  haven't,"  said  Harry. 

"In  any  case,"  resumed  the  other;  "there's  no 
favour  in  our  token  of  appreciation;  we're  very  well 
pleased." 

Then  why,  thought  Harry,  all  this  ostentation  ?  He 
said — 

"Well,  I  certainly  put  my  best  into  it."  His  tone 
was  that  of  banter,  but  he  chose  his  words  with  eager 
care.  "I  hope  the  Company  will  turn  out  worth  it." 
That's  the  worst  of  having  a  fastidious  soul.  If  all 
my  happy  prognostications  failed  of  their  mark,  I  fear 
it  would  mean  disaster  for  my  sanity." 

It  seemed  to  Harry  that  Webber-Colquhoun  did  not 
best  like  the  conversation.     But  Barras  matched  him. 

"Admirable!"  laughed  he.  "Admirable!  Here 
are  three  of  us,  prospective  candidates  for  an  asylum; 
and  all  dependent  on  the  caprice  of  mother  Earth  and 
a  possible  oleaginous  soul  for  her.  I  hope  she  minds 
her  responsibilities,  and  will  not,  therefore,  rout  the 
experts." 

"What  are  the  chances?"  asked  Harry,  taking  his 
mood. 

"May  I  propound  a  problem?" 

"Proceed!" 

"What  are  the  chances  that  two  twos  amount  to 
four?" 

"I  catch  your  hint." 

"Ah,  I  knew  you  would.  Mother  Earth  says  that 
her  units  are  all  dissimilar,  and  that,  therefore,  four 
is  Impossible  of  attainment.     Is  that  not  so?" 

"And  the  application  of  the  parable " 

"Is  this!     I  see  your  face,  and  I  say,  a  gentleman 


314  Broken  Arcs 

and  a  genius."  Harry  bowed  blandly.  *'It  may  indi- 
cate brutality  and  futility,  so  is  life  set  with  uncer- 
tainty. But  I  am  prepared  to  bet  otherwise.  Simi- 
larly: I  attend  Earth's  physiognomy;  the  book  of  her 
secrets  is  before  me:  I  say,  here  is  oil,  here  gold;  it 
may  be  rock  and  barren  clay,  but  I  am  prepared  to  bet 
otherwise.     I  have  money  in  this;  heavy  money." 

"Aren't  we  spoiling  an  excellent  meal  by  indulging 
in  shop?"  said  Webber-Colquhoun  rather  prosily. 

"Are  not  excellent  victuals  a  superb  mundane  accom- 
paniment to  heavenly  banter?"  said  Harry  gaily, 
caught  to  the  mood. 

"Superb!"  laughed  Barras.  Then,  seeing  that  his 
partner  was  not  best  pleased  with  the  turn  of  the  con- 
versation, he  added:  "But  our  friend  here  would  reply 
that  commercial  huckstering  could  never  afford  any- 
thing heavenly,  banter  or  otherwise." 

"And  I  would  give  the  echo  to  his  cheer,"  replied 
Harry  again. 

"Then,  Mr.  Denzil,  you  roll  a  new  conversation  Into 
the  field." 

"What  of  the  virtue  of  wine?"  said  Harry,  toasting 
him. 

"A  perennial  subject,"  replied  Barras,  in  acknowl- 
edgment. 

Webber-Colquhoun,  however,  did  not  seem  so  much 
disposed  to  float  the  heights,  even  though  so  happy  a 
subject  as  wine  was  the  occasion  of  it.  Harry  and 
Barras  swept  the  blue  in  the  gyratory  and  gambolling 
joy  of  flight,  but  their  companion,  who  serenely  trod 
the  earth  through  the  many  courses  of  his  meal,  had 
a  deterrent  effect  on  their  swift-winged  joy.  In  his 
person  the  tug  of  earth  overcame  the  attractions  of 
the  celestial  blue.  Silence  captured  them  eventually, 
and  they  trod  a  pedestrian  journey  amid  limbs  of 


Cogitations  315] 

cattle  and  pinions  of  feathered  creatures.  Barras' 
eyes  were  continually  on  Harry,  however,  and  he  no- 
ticed that  once  Harry  had  left  the  heights  contuma- 
cious perplexities  had  again  seized  him.  He  regarded 
his  partner,  and  wondered  how  he  could  fail  to  per- 
ceive the  tactical  advantage  of  strong  wings. 

Nevertheless,  though  he  was  now  no  longer  able  to 
fend  inquiries  by  the  use  of  a  counter  joy,  this  happy 
result  was  being  achieved  for  him  by  the  very  theme 
of  their  late  flights.  The  sylphic  spirits  resident  in 
wine  had  him  in  charge,  not  immersing  him  in  brutal- 
ity, but  floating  him  through  contentment. 

Webber-Colquhoun,  however,  was  not  one  to  forget 
the  passing  of  time.  He  had  long  ago  overcome,  once 
for  all,  any  tendency  to  lose  firm  foothold  on  substan- 
tial earth.  The  grey  that  strewed  his  forehead  be- 
tokened that  the  lesson  learnt  had  become,  not  only  a 
fixed  principle  of  life,  but  a  natural  habit  of  soul.  Not 
wine  nor  comfort  could  keep  that  eye  from  wandering 
ever  towards  the  timepiece  on  the  further  wall.  And 
when  its  larger  index  swung  over  its  smaller  fellow 
In  its  course  towards  the  zenith,  he  adjourned  the 
meeting. 

When  Harry  found  the  street  he  was  little  disposed 
for  an  immediate  return  to  Chelsea.  These  floating 
masses  of  people  made  him  a  meet  and  excellent  com- 
panionship. He  trod  with  them.  He  passed  down 
into  Leicester  Square.  Stepping  there,  a  siren  hailed 
him.  Rejecting  her  advances,  he  was  about  to  pass 
on  when  he  saw  a  blue-coated  monster  sweep  down 
upon  her.  Turning,  then,  he  offered  her  his  arm  and 
escorted  her  past  the  uncouth  danger.  Passed  the 
zone  of  peril,  he  freed  her  with  courtesy,  and  went 
Lis  way  with  uplifted  hat. 

To  and  fro  he  passed.     Then  suddenly  he  sprang 


316  Broken  Arcs 

up  some  stairs  thinking  to  sit  awhile  over  a  liqueur  in 
a  lounge.  A  further  cushioned  alcove  was  empty,  and 
he  sat  in  it. 

"A  curagao,  please/'  he  said  to  the  inelegant  atten- 
dant. 

**And  a  lemon-squash,  hot!"  a  silvery  voice  ex- 
claimed. 

A  quick  flutter  of  skirts,  and  a  figure  swept  by  the 
waiter,  and  flung  itself  beside  him. 

He  turned  eagerly  about.  Smiling  mischief  greeted 
him. 

'*Gwen!"  he  exclaimed. 

**Harry!"  came  the  response. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

**No.     What  are  you  doing  here?" 

*'Gwen,  tell  me!  You're  not  up  here ?"  Ques- 
tioning eyes  filled  up  an  awkward  query. 

*Trecisely!"  she  nodded  cheerily.  *'I  told  you, 
dear  boy,  when  I  first  met  you  that  I  was  in  business. 
I'm  not  lazy,  you  see."     She  laughed  in  his  face  gaily. 

*'But  you  needn't."  He  looked  at  her.  ''What 
about — er — Paris?" 

"Oh,  he!"  she  laughed  contemptuously.  "I  haven't 
heard  from  him  for  a  week.  Besides,  if  you're  in  for 
it,  better  play  it  right  through!" 

"I  don't  agree  with  you.  I  consider  you  married  to 
him."     Harry  spoke  solemnly,  sententiously. 

"What!  Me  married  to  him!"  She  laughed  out- 
right. "Oh,  Harry,  you're  a  dear  old  boy;  but  you're 
getting  at  me." 

Harry  was  constrained  to  laugh.  Their  drinks 
were  placed  before  them.  He  was  about  to  buy  choco- 
lates and  cigarettes  for  her,  but  her  tug  at  his  coat 
bade  him  desist. 

"Don't  be  silly!"  she  whispered,  looking  over  him. 


Cogitations  317 

"YouVe  been  feasting,  Harry.  You  do  look  nice.  It 
suits  you."     She  surveyed  him  complacently. 

"Gwen,"  said  he;  *'I  want  you  to  go  home." 

"I  don't  like  your  coat,  though,"  she  went  on.  "IVe 
seen  better."     She  was  quivering  with  mischief. 

"To  oblige  me  go  home!" 

*'Tell  me,  what  are  you  doing  up  here?" 

"Companionship,  I  suppose."     He  shrugged. 

"I  suppose,  my  lord,  you're  the  only  one  that  wants 
that."     She  pinched  his  arm  as  she  spoke. 

This  was  a  new  light  on  the  case.  He  had  a  point 
to  gain,  and  he  said  sturdily — 

"Oh,  but  it's  different  for  me  I" 

"Harry,  you  horrid  old  Turk!'* 

"Yes,  but  I  mean  that  I  don't  come  up  for  anything 
else,"  he  said,  though  It  was  the  Turkish  thought  that 
had  smitten  him. 

She  smiled  slowly  on  him. 

"Oh,  then  you're  too  terribly  good."  She  dismissed 
the  subject. 

"Gwen,  I  can't  understand  you."  He  looked  in  her 
eyes. 

"Don't  you?"  She  caressed  the  arm  of  his  coat. 
"Poor  old  coat,  you  do  look  a  bit  shabby;"  she  ad- 
dressed It  musingly. 

He  looked  down  at  her  and  laughed  outright. 

"Gwen,"  he  said;  "I  like  you." 

"Strange !"  she  replied,  looking  In  his  eyes.  "I  like 
you." 

The  blood  began  to  beat  In  his  veins. 

She  proceeded  with  her  drink;  and  he  with  his. 

Presently  he  said — 

"Gwen,  I  want  you  to  go  home." 

"I  will,"  she  whispered,  looking  at  him;  "if  you 
come  with  me." 


3i8  Broken  Arcs 

"IVe  got  my  living  to  get,"  she  said  determinedly, 
setting  herself  back  in  the  settee,  and  looking  straight 
ahead  of  her. 

"rU  give  you  as  much  as  youVe  likely  to  get,"  he 
said,  feeling  himself  unwontedly  wealthy  with  these 
papers  in  his  pocket. 

"What  about  to-morrow,  and  the  day  after?"  She 
turned  her  head  toward  him  without  coming  any 
nearer,  and  spoke  coolly. 

He  felt  himself  against  an  impenetrable  wall.  It 
baffled  him  almost  to  tears.  He  could  not  think 
clearly. 

They  were  silent  for  awhile.  Then  briskly  she 
slipped  her  arm  Into  his,  saying — 

"You  old  goose,  youVe  got  to  come  and  get  your 
coat." 

"I'm  not  going,"  he  said,  drawing  her  arm  up 
against  his  nevertheless.  Her  affectionate  action 
flushed  him  with  a  sense  of  luxury.  He  ordered  an- 
other liqueur. 

"Well  then,  let's  sit  here  and  chat,"  she  said. 

The  hour  drew  towards  midnight,  and  hilarity  grew 
rife  among  the  frequenters  of  the  lounge.  Deft  bread 
pellets  and  fragments  of  biscuit,  began  to  serve  as 
prefaces  to  friendship,  to  the  accompaniment  of  laugh- 
ter and  broad  wit.  One  or  two  of  the  abler  feminine 
wits  began  to  wax  witty  about  the  facial  misfortunes 
of  some  of  the  men.  What  the  sallies  of  their  vic- 
tims lacked  In  pungency  they  achieved  in  force.  That 
no  enmity  was  Implied  was  evident  by  the  fact  that 
some  of  the  fiercest  of  the  combatants  would  suddenly 
seal  so  remarkable  an  amity  that,  after  a  few  whis- 
pered confidences,  they  would  sally  out  and  down  the 
stairs  together.     In  this  way  the  company  began  to  be 


Cogitations  319 

thinned.  But  what  the  residue  lost  in  bulk  It  gained 
in  bolsterousness. 

Gwen  had  slipped  her  hand  down  Harry's  arm  till 
it  rested  In  his  hand.  He  caressed  It  with  his  other 
hand.  He  felt  as  though  he  himself  were  being  ca- 
ressed by  the  large  hand  of  a  strange  happiness. 

*'I  ought  to  be  going,''  he  said  at  last,  reluctantly. 

"Well,  good-bye,  then!  I'll  stay,"  said  she. 

**Gwen,  I  want  you  to  go  home  too,"  he  said. 

*'It  doesn't  matter  about  me.  You  don't  think  I'm 
worth  seeing  home."  There  was  bitterness  In  her 
voice;  and,  as  he  looked,  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

**It  Isn't  that.     You  know  It  Isn't  that,"  he  said. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  said,  and  shrugged. 

"And  If  I  come  with  you,  will  you  go  home?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"I  won't  be  able  to  come  In." 

"You  don't  think  my  poor  flat's  worth  coming  into." 

"Not  that!     It's  so  late." 

She  looked  at  him  stonily. 

"You  wish  to  stand  at  the  door  while  I  bring  your 
coat  to  you?" 

His  eyes  fell  before  hers. 

"I  won't  be  able  to  stay  long  then,"  he  said. 

He  rose  as  he  buttoned  his  coat.  He  felt  conquest 
gathering  round  him,  robbing  him  of  effort. 

Laughter  and  hilarity  were  dying  down  in  the  room 
when  they  made  their  way  out  of  it.  As  he  hailed  a 
taxicab,  and  handed  her  into  it,  entering  it  after  her, 
this  impalpable.  Implacable  sense  of  conquest  brought 
strange  quivers  and  tremors  Into  his  blood.  When  he 
sat  back  in  the  seat,  he  found  her  lips  put  up  to  his  for 
a  kiss.     He  pressed  a  fierce  kiss  upon  them. 


320  Broken  Arcs 

Early  the  following  morning,  as  the  milkmen  made 
their  clatter  in  the  silent  streets,  between  the  neigh- 
bourhoods of  Kensington  and  Chelsea  there  might 
have  been  seen  a  man  walking  hastily.  Although  he 
wore  an  overcoat  he  had  another  over  his  arm.  It 
was  evident  he  was  in  evening  dress. 

A  grey  chill  dawn  was  creeping  into  the  sky.  A 
bar  of  silver  cloud  hung  along  the  eastern  horizon. 
Though  the  man  strode  quickly  he  stopped  frequently, 
in  muttered  soliloquy. 

Once  he  stopped  so;  and  looking  up  at  the  rolling 
masses  of  grey  cloud  in  the  stupendous  arch  of  heaven, 
gesticulated  with  his  right  arm.  He  seemed  infinitely 
small  beneath  so  vast  a  dome.  If  spirits  hover  in 
the  air,  those  near  him  would  have  heard  him  say: 
"Oh,  Rose;  oh,  Rose  I  if  ever  I  loved  you,  it^s  now. 
God  forgive  me,  but  He  knows  that  I  never  loved  you 
as  I  do  at  this  moment.  I  have  wronged  you,  but  you 
are  all  things  to  me." 

They  would  have  thought  that  perhaps  he  was  ad- 
dressing some  deity  of  his.  But  they  could  not  have 
failed  to  note  the  anguish  in  his  voice. 


XIV 

"Mother,  how's  father?"  It  was  Jim  that  spoke. 
He  saw  his  mother  writing,  and  he  knew  to  whom  she 
wrote. 

"Shall  I  send  him  your  love?" 

"Is  he  still  making  a  home  for  us?" 

Question  and  reply  went  each  past  its  fellow,  despite 
the  fact  that  it  seemed  not  so.  There  are  some  sub- 
tleties of  thought  words  are  ill-fitted  to  convey.  Rose 
knew  the  thought  in  her  offspring's  mind;  and  as  it 


Cogitations  321 

j<roiced  a  conviction  in  her  own  soul  that  she  had  not 
put  to  deed,  she  sought  to  burke  it. 

*'Yes,  Jim,  he's  still  making  a  home  for  us,'*  she 
said  kindly,  but  with  something  in  her  voice  that  en- 
deavoured to  silence  him. 

A  long  silence  succeeded  as  Jim  cogitated.  Pres- 
ently he  said — 

"Mother!" 

"Well,  Jim,  what  is  it?  I  wish,  dear,  you  wouldn't 
interrupt  me  so  frequently." 

Jim  shrank  up  perceptibly,  and  made  no  reply. 

"What  was  it,  dear?"  she  asked  him  more  softly. 

"Mustn't  he  be  cold  at  nights?"  Jim  asked  then. 
He  spoke  as  though  he  found  it  difficult  to  recover 
from  the  rebuff. 

"Cold,  dear?  Why?"  Her  brow  expressed  per- 
plexity. 

"If  he  hasn't  got  a  home,"  he  said  sensitively. 

"Of  course  he's  got  somewhere  to  sleep,"  said  she. 

Silence  supervened  while  she  watched  him  with  a 
perplexed  smile  on  his  face.  He  sat  ruminating  this 
statement.  Evidently  these  elders  used  words  with 
surprisingly  difficult  meanings  to  them. 

"Then  he's  ^ot  a  home,"  he  exclaimed  finally,  as  a 
ray  of  illumination  struck  through  his  mind. 

"In  that  sense,  yes,"  she  said.  She  knew  not  why, 
but  this  interrogatory  made  her  uncomfortable.  It 
was  as  though  the  lad  had  reached  behind  superficials, 
and  laid  his  hand  on  the  native  raw  of  vitality. 

Jim  grappled  with  the  sophisticated  abuse  of  mean- 
ings. He  made  a  quaint  figure  as  he  sat  with  his  feet 
drawn  up  into  a  large  chair.  A  book  lay  open  In  his 
lap,  and  his  right  hand  lay  in  it.  With  his  left  he 
scratched  his  eyebrow  with  a  sage  old-fashioned  air. 

His  mother  watched  him  awhile  sadly.     This  boy 


322  Broken  Arcs 

with  his  sensitive  aloofness  was  saturated  with  brood- 
ing cogitations.  He  distressed  her.  Even  she  herself 
seemed  only  to  have  touched  the  margin  of  him.  At 
Mr.  Bradley's  injunction  she  had  let  him  mature  un- 
disturbed by  her  fretfulness.  The  wisdom  of  this  was 
patent  to  her.  But  it  disturbed  her  not  the  less.  She 
turned  to  her  letter.  Soon  again  his  voice  called  her; 
this  time  with  the  soft  breath  of  a  whisper. 

*Tes?' said  she. 

"You  haven't "   A  flush  suffused  his  cheek,  and 

he  halted. 

"Well,  dear?" 

"It  doesn't  matter." 

"What  was  it,  Jim?" 

"Father  and  you  haven't  quarrelled,  have  you, 
mother?"  He  spoke  diffidently,  with  a  shrinking  of 
manner. 

"No,  of  course  not!  Whatever  makes  you  think 
that?" 

He  made  no  reply. 

"You  mustn't  think  silly  things  like  that,"  she  said. 
"You'll  understand  all  these  things  better  when  you 
grow  up."  She  sought  to  rebuff  him;  his  manner  was 
almost  ominous.  It  certainly  distressed  her,  and  made 
her  uncomfortable. 

As  for  Jim,  this  bait  of  coming  wisdom  did  not 
tempt  him.  These  were  perplexities  that  he  wished 
solved  now.  Either  things  had  meanings  or  they  had 
not.  These  elders  seemed  to  rob  his  world  of  all  pur- 
pose, his  thought  of  all  cogency.  It  was  evident,  how- 
ever, that  this  subject  was  not  welcome.  It  seemed 
that  most  of  the  subjects  that  engaged  his  thought  had 
this  unhappy  quality.  It  was  very  strange.  Never- 
theless, the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  seek  for  his  own 
solutions,  and  this  he  endeavoured  to  do. 


Cogitations  323 

Though  Rose  turned  to  her  letter  she  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  proceed  with  It.  The  disquietude  her  son  had 
produced  In  her  thwarted  effort.  It  had  been  deep 
calling  to  deep,  for  she  was  kin  with  her  offspring  in 
her  appreciation  of  the  great  simplicities.  His  voice 
woke  a  responsive  chord  In  her.  And  its  music  made 
cacophony  of  the  worldly  wisdom  of  considerations. 
She  seemed  to  herself  like  one  who  had  forgotten  her 
heavenly  part  In  the  confusion  of  the  earthly  comedy; 
and  her  son  was  her  prompter.  This  very  letter  she 
wrote  was  a  dalliance  with  unreality.  What  had  she 
to  do  with  the  codified  sloth  of  the  ages,  forbidding 
her  to  play  her  part  In  the  great  business  of  life?  She 
was  but  a  doll,  writing  eloquent  phrases  to  him  who 
did  buffet  on  her  account  against  adversity. 

So  her  mind  ran.  For  many  months  now  this  mood 
had  grown  In  Intensity,  being  lulled  to  sleep  ever  and 
anon  by  the  friendships  she  had  made  in  the  town,  and 
waking  from  Its  sleep  but  slowly.  Her  young  mentor's 
prompting  now  woke  It  to  Intensity  of  life.  It  might 
also  have  been  said  that  so  earthly  a  cause  as  the  win- 
ter sleepiness  and  monotony  of  the  town  was  not  ab- 
sent In  the  effect  It  wrought. 

She  determined  to  have  done  with  it.  Briefly  con- 
cluding her  letter,  she  sought  out  Mr.  Bradley.  The 
sight  of  him  made  her  proceed  more  circumspectly 
than  her  mood  wished.  But  it  was  with  ardency  she 
said — 

"Father,  I'd  like  to  do  my  Christmas  shopping  in 
London.''     To  get  to  London  was  the  first  requisite. 

"Well,  that's  not  a  bad  Idea,"  replied  Mr.  Bradley, 
folding  up  his  paper,  and  putting  it  by.  "Incidentally, 
to  see  Harry,  too,  I  suppose." 

"Isn't  that  a  worthy  wish?"  she  said,  sitting  on  the 
arm  of  his  chair,  and  putting  her  arm  about  him. 


324  Broken  Arcs 

"Quite  I"  said  he. 

"Well,  shall  we  go?" 

"You  think  me  a  terrible  old  fogey,  don't  you?" 

"No,"  said  she.  "I  can't  altogether  understand 
you  sometimes.  But,  then,  I  suppose  you  can't  always 
understand  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  understand  you  all  right,  because  I've 
been  there.  You  can't  understand  me  because  you've 
not  been  here."  He  rose  up  and  took  her  two  hands 
in  his,  looking  down  at  her.  "It's  a  good  Idea,  my 
girl;  we'll  go  up.  More  than  that,  we'll  see  If  some- 
thing can't  be  done  to  get  you  two  spliced  up.  You've 
stood  your  test  well,  both  of  you.  My  philosophy's 
satisfied." 

She  gazed  at  him  wcnderlngly. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "I'm  going  to  be  a  fogey  no  longer. 
Besides,"  he  laughed,  "It's  too  much  of  a  strain.  I 
don't  like  It:  especially  when  the  Rose  of  the  World 
begins  to  get  estranged  from  me  because  of  It." 

Thus  were  the  floodgates  put  aside  to  let  the  old 
tides  of  affections  flow  into  their  one-time  channels. 
The  resumption  of  the  old  habitual  interchange  of 
happy  confidence  seemed  strange  after  these  months 
of  misunderstanding  and  aloofness.  It  baffled  her 
with  its  very  inrush  of  emotion.     He  noticed  It. 

"I  wondered  once  If  he  would  last,"  he  added. 
"Not  that  I  didn't  think  him  an  admirable  fellow. 
But  I  haven't  much  faith  In  that  way  of  bringing  up 
a  man.  Perhaps  I  was  wrong.  Anyway,  if  I'm  wrong 
it  is  Harry  that  has  proved  me  wrong.  Maybe,  he 
was  excellent  In  spite  of  his  education.  I  don't  know; 
only  I'm  very  glad  it's  over.  You  did  think  me  an  old 
fogey,  didn't  you,  now?" 

The  map  of  his  intentions  and  thoughts  began  to 
unroll  before  her.     The  meaning  of  his  lack  of  sym- 


Cogitations  325 

pathy,  his  apparent  coldness,  began  to  interpret  itself 
to  her. 

*'I  didn't  understand  you,  father,"  she  said.  "And 
I  don't  think  I  understand  it  now.  Why  should  it  be 
necessary  to  put  people  through  trials?" 

He  flinched  at  the  question.  To  dispute  methods 
is  to  awake  argument;  to  call  their  occasion  into  ques- 
tion Is  to  deny  the  basis  of  dispute.  He  avoided  the 
question. 

"Now  you'd  better  write  and  let  Harry  know," 
said  he. 

"No,"  said  she  exultantly;  "that's  what  we  won't 
do.  We'll  spring  it  on  him  as  a  surprise.  I'll  walk 
calmly  in  to  see  him,  and  enjoy  the  scene."  High  glee 
danced  merrily  In  her  voice.  During  these  months 
there  had  been  something  almost  surreptitious  about 
her  love.     Now  it  was  again  a  matter  of  open  day. 

If  Mr.  Bradley  had  shown  the  hesitancy  of  age  in 
his  desire  that  Harry  should  undergo  his  probationary 
period,  he  gave  evidence  of  youth's  resilient  temper  in 
the  promptness  with  which  he  decided  to  put  a  decision 
into  practice.  For  the  following  morning  saw  them 
being  borne  towards  the  great  Metropolis. 

Therefore  twenty-four  hours  had  scarce  sped  by 
since  the  thought  had  first  impinged  on  Rose's  mind 
when  she  might  have  been  seen  treading  gaily  through 
Chelsea  towards  Harry's  rooms.  That  curious  turn 
of  mental  gaiety  that  exults  In  mischievous  ebullition 
was  dominant  in  her.  The  corners  of  her  mouth 
danced  with  inward  laughter;  so  much  so  that  she  ex- 
cited curious  eyes  without  knowing  of  It. 

Her  first  rebuff  was  to  come  on  inquiring  for  Harry. 

"He's  not  in,  'm,"  said  the  slattern  maid  that  an- 
swered to  her  ring. 

"Will   he   be   long?"    asked  Rose.     She   had   not 


326  Broken  Arcs 

looked  for  this  quite  ordinary  disappointment.  It 
seemed  to  throw  a  shadow  over  her  glee. 

"I  don't  know,  'm/'  replied  the  loose-buUt  domestic, 
looking  at  her  with  an  irritating  lack  of  ideas. 

"Perhaps  I'd  better  come  in  and  wait,"  said  Rose, 
since  the  initiative  seemed  to  lie  on  her. 

"I'll  go  and  see,"  answered  the  unlnventive  servant; 
and  fled. 

The  worthy  matron  in  control  of  the  household  then 
appeared  on  the  scene,  to  whom  Rose  again  put  the 
proposition  that  she  should  await  Harry's  return. 

"Oh,  certainly,  yes;  do!"  said  she.  "You're  Mr. 
Denzll's  young  lady,  aren't  you?  There  is  a  fire  in 
his  room.  And  I  expect  him  back  any  minute  now. 
He  said  he  was  only  going  out  for  lunch.  Will  you 
step  up?" 

Rose  stepped  up. 

When  she  had  last  seen  Harry's  room  it  had  still 
borne  traces  of  Its  ancient  state.  That  Is  to  say,  vari- 
ous pictures  of  a  melancholy  type  had  hung  on  its 
walls.  She  remembered  one  large  lithograph  that  had 
adorned  the  space  over  Harry's  bed,  depicting  Bel- 
shazzar's  feast,  and  a  valiant  Daniel  that  was  inter- 
preting the  blazoned  letters  to  the  confusion  of  the 
feasters.  She  had  dim  memories,  too,  of  distant 
angels  looming  in  one  corner,  which  with  the  Menes 
and  Tekels  were  the  only  touches  of  light  In  a  some- 
what gloomy  general  effect.  Another  picture  over  the 
fireplace  had  represented  a  delicate  scene  out  of  the 
Rape  of  Lucrece,  with  an  obscure  quotation  from 
Shakespeare  that,  had  It  been  legible,  would  doubtless 
have  borne  evidence  of  some  passionate  declaration 
by  Superbus.  Its  improprieties  had  been  toned  down 
by  sundry  splashes  of  brown  with  which  Time  had 
bedaubed  its  distinctness.     These  were  all  gone;  and 


Cogitations  327 

their  supplanters  bore  evidence  to  the  taste  of  the 
room's  present  inhabitant. 

Having  examined  the  room,  and  passed  approval 
on  it,  Rose  took  a  book  and  sat  before  the  fire  seeking 
thus  to  employ  herself.  But  this  gave  small  satisfac- 
tion, and  so  she  took  to  wandering  again. 

She  took  her  way  to  some  work  that  Harry  was  at, 
that  lay  on  his  table.  Reading  it  she  saw  it  was  a 
review  of  a  historical  work  that  lay  beside  it.  She 
read  so  much  of  it  as  Harry  had  done.  Finding  that 
it  had  awakened  her  interest  in  its  subject  she  bore  the 
tome  in  question  over  to  the  fireside  seat  for  more  de- 
tailed examination. 

A  letter  marked  the  page  from  which  he  had  just 
extracted  a  quotation.  She  paid  no  heed  to  the  letter 
at  first,  but  let  her  attention  rove  over  the  text.  Then 
she  turned  listlessly  to  the  letter.  As  her  eye  fell  on 
it,  it  was  evident  her  interest  sharpened.  All  listless- 
ness  passed  from  her  as  she  turned  it  over  to  read  it. 
A  quick  pallor  passed  over  her  face,  and  her  features 
hardened.  She  read  it;  and  re-read  it.  Then  a  groan 
broke  from  her. 

With  stern  set  face  she  put  the  letter  in  her  purse, 
and  gazed  at  the  fire.  Then,  as  the  nervous  tension 
overcame  her,  she  jumped  up  and  began  agitatedly 
pacing  the  room. 

This  evidently  attracted  the  attention  of  the  worthy 
landlady.  At  any  rate  she  soon  put  in  an  appear- 
ance. 

*'Mr.  DenziPs  longer  than  I  thought  he  would  be,"^ 
said  she.     "Can  I  make  you  a  cup  of  tea?" 

*'0h,  yes,  thank  you,  if  you  wouldn't  mind."  Rose's 
manner  was  perturbed,  and  her  speech  disjointed. 

*Tery  well;  then  I'll  do  that." 

She  was  about  to  go  when  Rose,  putting  restraint 


328  Broken  Arcs 

on  herself,  said  as  nonchalantly  as  she  could — too 
nonchalantly  for  reality — 

"Do  you  know  where  Mr.  Denzll  has  gone?  He 
didn't  say,  I  suppose." 

**I  think  I  remember  him  saying  somewhat  about 
going  to  Mr.  Battersby's,  but  I  wouldn't  be  sure." 

*'I  suppose  he  is  often  at  Battersby's.  But,  then,  of 
course,  you  would  not  know.  Does  he  often  stay  with 
Mr.  Battersby? — for  the  night,  I  mean?" 

"Oh  lor,  no!  He's  only  been  out  one  night  for  a 
long  time  now,  and  that  was  when  he  stayed  with 
some  gentlemen  he  went  out  to  dinner  with." 

"Oh,  really!     When  was  this?" 

"About  a  week  ago  now." 

"I  suppose  he  came  back  pretty  late  the  following 
day." 

"Well,  no,  miss,  that's  just  what  I  laugh  with  him 
about.     He  came  in  with  the  milk." 

The  good  dame  evidently  saw  a  mirth  In  this  that 
Rose  strangely  seemed  to  miss. 

"Oh,  did  he?"  she  said.  "Thank  you,  I  will  have 
some  tea." 

When  the  unhappy  slut,  that  was  general  accom- 
plisher  of  unclean  tasks  in  the  establishment,  brought 
her  tea.  Rose  partook  of  it,  but  left  the  accompanying 
piece  of  cake.  She  then  again  read  the  letter  that 
seemed  to  have  caused  the  mischief,  and  took  note  of 
its  date.  Other  letters,  from  Harry  to  her,  followed 
suit.  She  compared  the  date  and  wording  of  these 
with  the  date  and  wording  of  the  other;  and  as  she  did 
so  a  distant  and  obvious  sneer  passed  over  her  face. 

Replacing  them,  she  sat  to  await  Harry.  By  her 
clenched  hands  it  was  easy  to  see  she  had  considerable 
difficulty  in  keeping  control  of  herself.  Now  and  then 
a  tear  would  burst  forth,  and  lie  like  a  pearl  on  her 


Cogitations  329 

cheek.     But  these  she  brushed  Impatiently  away.     So 
she  waited,  without  move  or  change  of  attitude. 


XV 

His  recent  visit  to  Battersby  had  left  Harry  with 
the  impression  that  in  his  urgency  to  live  he  had  some- 
what neglected  the  gentler  amenities  of  friendship. 
Therefore,  not  knowing  that  Rose  was  at  that  very 
moment  being  borne  to  London,  he  determined  to 
make  good  his  fault.  He  discovered  Battersby  busy 
at  the  infinite  labour  of  correcting  proofs. 

"When  does  It  appear?"  he  asked,  referring  to  the 
litter  of  paper. 

* 'Heavens  knows  I  When  I  can  get  through  this 
ungodly  task,  or  soon  after;  which  is  to  say,  at  some 
remote  unhappy  date." 

"But  Vm  interrupting  you,"  said  Harry.  "You  go 
on;  ril  read  here."  He  took  up  a  book,  and  sitting 
comfortably  In  Battersby's  favourite  chair,  began  to 
fill  his  pipe. 

"Interrupting?  My  dear  man,  youVe  provided  me 
with  the  excuse  my  mind  has  been  seeking  this  hour 
past.  You'll  find  some  quite  praiseworthy  claret  over 
there  behind  my  boots." 

"Well,  that's  quite  a  notion."  Harry  went  over 
and  extracted  it.  "But  in  fair  requital  I'll  give  you 
a  Hand  with  those  proofs." 

"Do  you  mean  it?" 

"Down  on  the  nail." 

"My  dear  man,  you're  a  heavenly  angel !  Any 
pangs  of  growth  on  your  shoulder-blades,  may  I  ask? 
I'm  not,  anyhow;  and  I  mean  to  hold  you  to  It." 

"Perhaps  you're  fastidious,  though;    and  want  to 


330  Broken  Arcs 

better  your  phrases.  If  so,  don't  mind  telling  me!'' 
"Now,  Denzil,  no  shuffling!  Just  you  sit  down  and 
get  on  with  It.  We'll  work  like  men  till  lunch,  and 
then  away  with  these  empty  baubles.  If  you  wouldn't 
mind  handing  me  over  my  baccy.  Thanks !  Now  for 
the  claret.  Good!  So;  right  away!  By  the  way, 
though;  if  you  think  any  phrase  wants  bettering,  then 
in  the  name  of  the  Deity  better  It,  and  I'll  think  myself 
lucky."  Which  said,  he  applied  himself  again  to  his 
work. 

Thus  for  over  an  hour  there  was  nothing  to  be 
heard  but  the  rustling  of  paper,  and  the  softly  mut- 
tered imprecations  of  irritation.  Smoke  ascended  Into 
the  air  In  diminishing  and  disappearing  strands;  and 
the  gurgle  of  the  claret  bottle  aided  the  homeliness  of 
the  scene.  It  could  have  been  noticed  that  Battersby 
threw  himself  at  his  work  earnestly,  and  passed  sheet 
after  sheet  over  speedily  without  reference  to  his  type- 
script. Harry,  on  the  other  hand,  proceeded  more 
slowly.  His  references  to  the  typescript  were  many; 
ES,  too,  were  his  alterations.  Inasmuch  as  frequently 
after  his  alterations  he  stole  a  sly  glance  at  his  com- 
rade, it  might  have  been  guessed  that  he  was  not  Inno- 
cent of  Interpolating  Denzil  for  Battersby  in  matters 
of  phraseology  every  now  and  then. 

Punctually  to  time  Battersby  threw  aside  his  work, 
and  called  loudly  on  Harry  to  do  the  same.  He  rang 
for  lunch.  When  the  charwoman  he  had,  had  laid 
the  lunch,  and  left  them  to  it,  he  said,  assuming  refer- 
ence to  her — 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  latest  importation?" 
"They  don't  proceed  from  beauty  to  beauty,"  said 
Harry,  for  In  truth  she  had  scarcely  been  an  appetizing 
layer  of  a  meal. 

"No,"     said    Battersby    reflectively;   "they  don't; 


Cogitations  331 

youVe  right  there.  They  may  though,  you  know.  We 
may  have  inverse  notions  of  beauty,  she  and  I.  I  see 
her  point  of  view.  I  don't  accept  It,  but  I'll  concede 
Its  legitimacy  from  her  standpoint,  and  save  myself 
from  intolerance.  But  what  ungodly  lives  they 
lead!" 

"Why  did  you  get  rid  of  your  other?" 

**H'm;  yes;  well!  Rather  awkward  subject,  old 
chap.  She  was  a  married  woman,  you  know,  same  as 
this  one  Is.  Only  this  one,  I  should  say,  is  sterile, 
while  the  other " 

'Wasn't!" 

'Treclsely!  Put  with  your  usual  delicacy,  old  chap. 
Just  to  think  of  it,  an  ordinary  fact  of  nature,  a  service 
to  the  state,  and  the  benefactor  loses  twelve  shillings 
a  week  besides  her  attendant  disadvantages!" 

After  the  meal  Harry  declared  his  intention  of  re- 
turning, as  he  had  work  to  be  accomplished.  Bat- 
tersby  found  small  difficulty,  however,  in  setting  aside 
his  intention. 

They  sat  on  thus,  and  let  the  wings  of  conversation 
lift  them  over  the  proverbial  China  and  Peru  of  inter- 
est. Harry  found  Battersby's  flippancy  an  admirable 
corrective.  It  gave  its  owner  feather-feet  with  which 
to  tread  over  the  fragile  ways  of  tender  subjects.  It 
gave  him  the  entry  to  themes  where  the  cynic  and  in- 
velgher  were  ranked  in  Inveterate  hostility;  and  he 
came  to  cripple  the  cynic  and  to  silence  the  inveigher. 
It  flew  to  discover  Its  prey  through  voids  that  refused 
to  sustain  heavier  barbs.  It  played  like  lightning  over 
subjects  that  challenged  partisanship.  Its  anger  was 
deadly  but  never  furious;  Its  pity  was  graceful  but 
never  maudlin.  It  admitted  its  limitations  in  that  it 
refused  greatness.  It  clung  to  the  centre-ways  of 
sanity. 


332 


Broken  Arcs 


Gwendoline  had  become  an  abiding  theme  In  Harry's 
thought.  After  his  night-long  visit  to  her  he  had 
sworn  hatred  on  her;  but  this  had  passed.  She  had 
written  In  tender  memory  of  his  visit,  and  he  had  re- 
plied offering  her  aid,  but  refusing  to  see  her.  Never- 
theless, she  continued  in  his  thought.  He  had  given 
up  the  Idleness  of  denying  that  she  had  touched  his 
infatuation,  and  he  thought  much  of  her  future.  The 
more  he  thought  the  more  a  deep,  brooding,  perma- 
nent melancholy  laid  hold  of  him,  undermining  his 
health  of  mind  Indeed,  but  bringing  him  withal  nearer 
to  the  vital  things  of  life,  as  he  well  saw  and  knew. 
The  mention  of  Battersby's  charwoman  had  roused  all 
this  In  Harry's  mind,  and  he  therefore  turned  to  his 
flippancy,  fearfully,  but  firmly,  as  to  the  blade  of  sur- 
geonry. 

"Talking  about  your  late  household  assistant,"  said 
he,  "I  suppose  we  project  a  good  deal  of  suffering  Into 
them  that  they  never  experience." 

**0f  course,"  said  Battersby.  "It  means  a  sudden 
change  that  wakes  a  good  rollicking  oath;  and  then 
they  settle  down  to  the  new  state  of  affairs." 

"But,"  said  Harry,  "what  about  those  who  have 
quick  sensations  and  a  disastrous  future  to  look  for- 
ward to?" 

The  sequence  lacked  in  Battersby's  mind,  and  he 
declared  roundly  that  he  had  lost  the  trail. 

"Well,  about  those  unhappy  fellow-creatures  of  ours 
that  haunt  the  purlieus  of  Piccadilly?"  he  asked.  He 
spoke  with  an  effort  at  flippancy  that  endeavoured 
not  to  reveal  to  his  listener  that  he  spoke  of  a  personal 
matter. 

"The  perennial  theme  of  melancholy  to  the  young 
and  morbid,"  Battersby  pronounced,  taking  his  pipe 
from  his  mouth  to  give  additional  weight  to  his  words. 


Cogitations  33J 

"To  the  quick  and  earnest,  I  suppose  you  mean." 

"That  presupposes  an  earnest  point  of  view,  and 
Fm  not  sure  that  that's  always  healthy.  Earnestness, 
my  excellent  Denzil,  is  o'erapt  to  overweight  its  inter- 
est.    At  any  rajie,  I  sedulously  avoid  it." 

The  surgeon's  blade  made  a  deeper  and  more  com- 
plete incision  than  Harry  had  thought  it  would.  It 
lost  its  benefit  for  him  thereby,  for  he  refused  to  part 
with  so  much. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  said,  "that  you  have 
never  thought  over  that  tremendous  problem?" 

"WeVe  had  skirmishes,"  said  Battersby;  "but  I 
thank  God  I've  always  won." 

"You  mean  you've  avoided  it." 

"Same  thing." 

"  'Pon  my  word  you're  a  strange  chap,  Battersby.*' 

"That  may  very  likely  be.  But  problems  find  me 
often  enough  without  my  journeying  the  metropolis  in 
search  of  them." 

This  was  small  aid  to  Harry,  and  he  left  presently 
with  Battersby's  injunction  ringing  in  his  ears  bidding 
him  forego  chivalry  as  exhausting  to  the  emotions.  As 
he  made  his  way  back  the  prospects  that  Gwendoline 
Farrer  had  in  her  manner  occupied  his  thought  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  else. 

It  was  in  this  morbid  mood  he  entered  his  room, 
letting  fall  a  cry  of  surprise  as  he  saw  Rose  sitting  by 
the  firelight  in  the  dusk  of  the  room. 

"Rose!  You  here!  You  never  let  me  know  you 
were  coming!" 

"We  came  up  this  morning." 

Her  voice  was  cold.     She  submitted  to  his  embrace. 

"We  must  have  a  light,"  said  he,  rattling  a  box  of 
matches.     "Doesn't  it  get  dark  soon?" 

"No,  don't  let's  have  a  light.     I  like  it  like  this." 


334  Broken  Arcs 

"Right  hoi  But  It  Is  a  joy,  dearie,  to  see  you  like 
this."  When  he  had  first  came  In  melancholy  thoughts 
concerning  Miss  Gwendoline  Farrer  had  been  at  full 
flood  in  his  mind,  and  consequently  the  sight  of  Rose 
had  perturbed  him.  Now  she  was  to  him  the  coming 
of  spring  to  winter,  and  he  rejoiced  in  her  presence. 

"Is  it?'*  she  said. 

"Yes,  Indeed,"  he  said,  placing  a  chair  beside  hers 
and  drawing  her  hand  Into  his.  He  thought  her 
strangely  cold. 

"And  how  have  you  been  getting  on?"  she  asked, 
warming  somewhat. 

"My  dear  own  sweetheart,"  said  he,  "you  know  as 
much  about  me  as  I  do ;  or  you  ought  to  after  my  daily 
budgets." 

"Do  I?" 

"Yes,  of  course  you  do,  you  silly  old  girlie."  He 
found  himself  combating  a  strangeness  in  her. 

"I  didn't  know." 

He  drew  her  to  him  for  a  kiss  in  reply.  She  sub- 
mitted. It  was  no  eager  response.  He  scarcely  even 
realized  that  an  impalpable  hand  was  thrusting  him 
aloof  from  her.  An  awkward  silence  supervened.  To 
relieve  it  she  said — 

"So  you've  been  making  money." 

"Yes,  dear;  I'm  quite  a  wealthy  man  now.  We 
must  get  married  at  once."  He  murmured  tender- 
nesses. 

"You  like  these  men?"  she  asked. 

"Not  altogether,"  he  replied.  "I've  got  hold  of 
another  thing  now  that  I  have  personally  more  faith 
in." 

"You  dined  with  them,  didn't  you  say?"  she  asked. 
He  caught  a  strange  Insistence  in  her  questions. 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  he. 


Cogitations  335) 

"Was  that  the  night  you  didn't  come  home?" 

The  question  stabbed  him,  and  robbed  him  of  his 
breath  a  moment.  He  thought  he  felt  her  hand  quiver 
and  throb  In  his,  but  could  not  know  If  this  were  she 
or  himself. 

"Yes/'  He  laughed  awkwardly.  "I  had  too  much 
wine,  I  fear;  and  so  I  went  to  stop  at  the  Frenchman's 
hotel  (I  think  he's  a  Frenchman,  that  Is)  ;  he  lives 
quite  close  there."  Harry  felt  her  hand  stiffen  and 
harden  in  his. 

*'0h,"  said  she,  with  almost  a  perceptible  sneer. 

"But  who  told  you?"  he  asked. 

"Your  landlady  just  happened  to  mention  it." 

He  felt  no  anathema  towards  that  Innocent  matron. 
She  was  In  no  way  concerned  with  this. 

He  grew  suddenly  apprehensive  as  to  her  coldness. 
Alarm  ran  startled  through  his  brain. 

"But  why  are  you  so  strange,  Rose?"  he  asked. 
"What's  the  matter?     Tell  me,  dearie!" 

"Nothing!"  she  replied.  Her  hand  quivered  now 
undeniably;  so  also  did  her  voice  betray  quivering 
emotion.  They  were  to  him  the  indisputable  trumpet- 
tongues  of  calamity. 

"Rose,"  he  cried;  "something  Is  the  matter.  What 
Is  It?" 

She  turned  on  him,  and  her  voice  was  a  challenge. 

"You  didn't  stay  at  a  hotel  that  night." 

"Rose!"  He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  cry  on  the 
word.  He  stood  looking  down  at  her  through  the 
dark.     "Rose,"  he  said  again;  "what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  what  I  say,  Harry."  Her  voice  was  harsh; 
harsh  with  restrained  emotion. 

"Do  you  mean  to  suggest,  Rose,  that  I  am  lying?" 

"Do  you  give  me  your  word  that  you  were  at  that 
hotel  that  night?" 


336  Broken  Arcs 

"Yes,''  he  said  doggedly,  quaverlngly. 

"Oh,"  she  said;  and  It  was  the  cry  of  a  wounded 
soul. 

"That's  to  say "  he  started. 

"Well?"  she  asked,  waiting,  maybe  hoping. 

"Yes,  I  was  at  that  hotel,"  he  said  doggedly  again. 

"Harry,  you  weren't."  She  rose  with  the  accusa- 
tion and  there  was  indignation  struggling  through  dire 
distress  in  every  word. 

"For  God's  sake,  let's  have  a  little  light !"  he  cried, 
his  nerves  all  on  edge  and  a-quiver. 

He  struck  a  match;  and  as  the  lit  gas  threw  its 
brilliance  on  the  scene  it  showed  her  standing  pale  and 
tragic.  Tears  flowed  steadily  and  slowly  down  her 
cheeks  from  out  brimming  eyes,  and  she  made  no 
effort  to  wipe  them.  His  whole  being  gushed  with 
sudden  and  deep  pity  for  her,  but  her  attitude  chal- 
lenged him  to  touch  her. 

He  glanced  hastily  about  the  room,  and  saw  the  de- 
ranged table,  the  misplaced  book.  It  was  now  his 
turn  to  cry  aloud.     Understanding  leapt  on  him. 

"Oh,  Rose!  Rose!"  he  cried. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"I  know  how  you  found  out.  But  I  was  faithful  to 
you.  Rose;  faithful  in  my  thought.  I  hated  myself, 
and  exalted  you  in  it.  And  do  now."  His  eye 
drooped  before  hers. 

"And  you  lied  to  me."  She  spared  him  nothing. 
Her  softness,  gentleness,  turned  to  flint.  She  seemed 
to  him  merciless. 

He  shuddered  at  that  stroke ;  but  he  took  it. 

"Yes,  and  I  lied  to  you.  I  lied  to  you.  Though  I 
exonerate  myself  in  that  now.  I  did  It  partly  to  save 
you  pain.  And  in  a  sense  It  was  true,  for  I  hated  the 
other  thing." 


Cogitations  337 

She  sat  suddenly  In  her  chair,  and,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  sobbed  violently. 

"Rose!  Don't,  dear!  oh  Rose!''  he  cried,  drop- 
ping on  his  knees  beside  her,  and  putting  his  arms 
about  her. 

She  suffered  his  comfort.  He  kissed  her  hair  ten- 
derly. She  seemed  shaken  as  though  by  a  tempest. 
He  had  never  seen  sorrow  like  this.  And  to  think 
that  he  had  caused  It!  Convulsive  shudders  shook 
her,  as  she  attempted  to  control  herself. 

"Don't,  my  darling!  Oh,  this  wounds  me,  dear," 
he  whispered. 

Slowly  she  extricated  herself  from  his  caress,  and 
distance  began  again  to  grow  between  them.  He  felt 
it  coming,  but  was  powerless  to  fend  It.  It  oppressed 
him  with  a  feeling  of  helplessness  and  despair. 

She  rose,  and  drawing  off  her  engagement  ring  laid 
it  on  the  mantelpiece,  herself  convulsed  with  sobs  as 
she  did  so.  It  was  to  him  as  though  a  cold  Icy  hand 
had  reached  from  darkness,  and  struck  him.  His 
limbs  seemed  to  lose  the  power  of  muscular  action  as 
he  watched  her.     At  length  he  found  speech. 

"Rose,"  he  cried,  "what  does  this  mean?" 

She  turned  on  him  for  reply. 

"Harry,  I  trusted  you  so ;  oh,  I  trusted  you  so !" 

"And  you  did  well  to  trust  me.  Rose.  Before  God, 
I  tell  you  you  have  been  the  one  absorbing  topic  of  my 
mind.  Can't  you  see  that  this  thing  Is  nothing,  an 
incident?" 

"That  you  should  look  at  it  like  that  makes  it 
worse." 

"Rose,  my  darling,  you  speak  as  a  woman.  I  see 
your  point;  but  can't  you  see  mine?" 

"No;  I'm  afraid  I  can't,  Harry." 

Futility,  helplessness,  wrapped  them. 


33^  Broken  Arcs 

"And  Is  this  to  be  the  end  of  all  things,  Rose?"  he 
asked,  a  terrible  hopelessness  ringing  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,  I  think  so."  She  was  firmer  now;  but  her 
voice  quavered  through  its  resolution. 

He  gazed  on  a  ruined  world.  His  eyes  lost  focus 
on  his  surroundings;  her  or  the  room.  The  signifi- 
cance of  her  words  dazed  him  awhile,  it  came  so  sud- 
denly. But  he  grew  alive  to  It;  and  therewith  came 
a  great  sorrow. 

He  burst  unrestrainedly  to  tears.  He  fell  on  his 
knees,  covering  his  face  with  his  hands  while  great 
sobs  shook  him.  It  was  to  him  as  though  the  whole 
earth  had  suddenly  lost  significance  and  purpose;  as 
though  the  goal  for  which  he  had  striven  had  suddenly 
been  shattered  before  his  eyes;  and  his  zest  of  life 
rolled  on  him,  taunting  him. 

Quickly  he  found  her  arms  about  him,  while  she 
kissed  his  forehead,  and  breathed  soft  words  by  him. 
She  laid  her  cheek  beside  his.  Then  she  drew  his  head 
on  her  breast,  and  comforted  him  as  she  might  a  child. 
Hope  revived  in  him. 

"Then  It's  not  all  over.  Rose?"  Rising,  he  took 
her  by  the  hands,  and  held  her  apart  from  him,  look- 
ing down  anxiously  at  her. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  whispered,  drooping  her  eyes  before 
him. 

He  let  fall  her  hands. 

"Then  why  did  you  comfort  me  so?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his. 

"Because  you  were  in  trouble,  Harry." 

"Oh,  was  that  all?"  he  said,  and  there  was  bitter- 
ness in  his  voice. 

Hearing  it,  she  put  up  her  hand  as  though  to  take 
his,  but  let  it  fall  again.     Silence  held  them. 

"I  must  go,  I  must  go,"  she  said  at  last,  shivering. 


Cogitations  339 

"And  are  we  to  part  like  this?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  as  though  clinging  to  a  resolve. 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her. 

"Will  you  kiss  me,  Harry?"  Her  face  was  put  up 
to  his. 

"Don't  mock  me,  Rose!"  he  said,  turning  away 
from  her. 

She  went  slowly  across  the  room.  At  the  door  his 
voice  hailed  her. 

"Yes?"  she  asked. 

"You  have  a  letter  of  mine.  Rose,"  he  said. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  keep  it."  Her  hand  was  in  her 
bag. 

"Very  well!" 


XVI 

He  heard  the  front  door  open  and  close,  and  foot- 
steps in  the  street  without.  He  sat  with  a  heavy  sigh 
in  the  chair  that  had  lately  held  her. 

Presently  his  mouth  began  to  twitch  and  draw  to 
and  fro,  while  tears  coursed  his  cheeks.  Reflection 
was  at  white  heat  of  emotion  in  him. 

"I  insulted  her.  Good  God,  I  know  that:  I  insulted 
her,"  he  cried  out.  He  rose  and  strode  about  the 
room.  "That's  all  it  was.  It  wasn't  unfaithfulness, 
it  was  an  insult:  a  thing  to  be  forgiven  on  apology. 
She's  deliberately  ruining  two  lives  for  a  whim.  For 
she  knows  I  love  her;  she  knows  that,  as  I  know  she 
loves  me.  It's  pride;  that's  all  it  is,  pride,  pride.  Oh, 
why  didn't  I  think  of  this  while  she  was  here !" 

Time  drew  out  without  heed  or  reckoning  by  him. 
A  knock  fell  on  the  door,  and  he  gazed  ardently  into 
the  fire  while  the  maid  laid  dinner  for  him.     When 


340  Broken  Arcs 

she  had  gone,  and  he  turned  to  his  meal,  he  saw  that 
there  were  some  letters  for  him.  Tossing  them  un- 
opened on  to  his  writing-table  a  familiar  callgraphy 
caught  his  attention,  and  he  drew  out  a  letter  from 
Gwendoline  Farrer. 

"Curse  It!  and  curse  her!"  he  cried,  and  flung  it 
unopened  across  the  room.  It  floated  in  a  curve 
across  the  air;  and,  falling  in  the  fire,  went  up  the 
chimney  in  a  sheet  of  flame. 

Looking  on  his  meal  he  turned  In  revulsion  from  it. 
With  quick  agitated  movements  he  donned  his  coat, 
thrust  on  his  hat,  and  went  out. 

With  long  strides  he  strode  out  he  knew  not 
whither.  The  single  fact  that  he  was  now  alone,  with 
no  goal  to  strike  for,  no  comfort  to  turn  to,  no  hope 
with  which  to  be  buoyed,  began  now  to  fall  into  a 
vaster  scheme.  It  had  hitherto  been  the  one  devas- 
tating thing  that  had  held  his  mind.  Now  It  faded 
awhile.  But  he  knew  that  it  was  but  linking  itself 
with  many  other  things  for  a  yet  more  terrific  assault. 
He  could  not,  seemed  not  to  be  able  to,  fasten  his  at- 
tention on  any  one  point  of  Immediate  sorrow.  He 
endeavoured  to  ward  off  the  pending  host  of  attack. 

Passers-by  regarded  him  curiously  as  they  heard 
him  muttering  to  himself,  or  observed  his  gesticula- 
tions as  he  arrayed  his  case  before  an  imaginary  Rose. 
But  he  saw  none,  heeded  none. 

Presently  his  feet  slackened,  and  he  stopped  and 
looked  about  him  as  though  in  recollection  of  some- 
thing. Looking  up  he  saw  to  the  left  of  him  in  the 
night  sky  the  golden  haze  of  a  shopping  centre.  Be- 
fore him,  over  the  smaller  houses,  rose  a  looming 
mass,  a  darker  building  on  a  dark  sky.  One  or  two 
lit  windows  relieved  its  gloom.  Suddenly  recollecting 
that  this  was  the  set  of  flats  In  which  Gwendoline  had 


Cogitations  341 

her  lodgment,  he  turned  sharply  about  and  fled  quickly 
down  a  side  turning. 

When  he  settled  down  into  a  walk  again  he  found 
that  walking  had  lost  all  zest:  its  potency  to  relieve 
his  overwrought  brain  was  strangely  gone.  So  he 
turned  and  walked  in  a  spiritless  way  back  to  Chelsea. 
Having  arrived  home  he  met  inquiries  as  to  his  unfin- 
ished meal.  He  dismissed  the  question,  and  he  dis- 
missed its  subject.  Utter  weariness  came  over  him. 
Flinging  himself  Into  his  chair  he  fell  into  a  heavy 
sleep. 

It  was  cold  and  dismal  when  he  awoke.  The  clock 
indicated  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  He  crept 
up  through  a  still  and  silent  household,  and  drew  him- 
self into  his  bed  fully  dressed  even  as  he  was,  there 
to  resume  his  interrupted  sleep. 

The  following  morning  he  had  but  a  dim  notion  of 
calamity.  When  memory  surged  on  him  he  sprang 
out  with  a  cry  of  pain.  A  cold  mist  licked  the  window- 
pane.  No  man  could  well  have  been  more  cheerless 
and  cold.  He  stood,  upcalling  before  his  blank  gaze 
his  hopeless  position.  He  was  alone  now.  He  had 
given  up  all  for  her;  and  now  she  had  given  him  up. 
The  blame  was  his;  he  stood  to  it;  but  he  called  aloud 
that  the  lash  he  received  was  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  ill  he  had  done.  Still,  be  that  as  it  may,  the  fact 
remained:  he  was  alone.  There  had  been  a  certain 
indefinable  somewhat  about  Rose's  manner  that  con- 
veyed to  his  rnlnd  a  sense  of  complete  hopelessness. 
It  seemed  to  his  mind,  despite  Its  dogged  and  resolute 
texture,  as  if  it  were  to  court  a  further  castigation  of 
Fate  to  seek  to  alter  this  irremediable  resolve. 

Yet  it  was  the  worse  evil  to  leave  things  as  they 
were.  Indeed,  it  was  impossible.  Therefore,  while 
the  day  was  yet  young  he  journeyed  round  to  the  hotel 


342  Broken  Arcs 

at  which  Br.  Bradley  was  wont  to  stay  when  he  came 
up  to  London.  Here  he  learnt  that,  early  though  it 
was,  Mr.  Bradley,  Mrs.  Foggetty  and  child  had  al- 
ready gone.  No,  they  could  not  tell  him  what  train 
they  had  proposed  to  catch.  They  could  but  say  what 
they  had  said;  they  could  but  point  to  the  Irrefutable 
fact. 

Strange  though  It  was,  this  news  did  not  depress 
Harry.  It  touched  him  to  life  as  with  a  whip.  He 
went  quickly  forth  and  springing  Into  a  taxicab  he 
gave  violent  Injunctions  for  speed  to  a  certain  large 
terminus.  The  sphinx-like  driver  turned  no  hair  at 
this  urgency,  but  coolly  proceeded  to  do  as  he  would 
ordinarily  have  done. 

No!  he  could  not  discover  them  at  the  station;  and 
as  he  learnt  that  a  train  to  WInmouth  had  gone  but 
half-an-hour  since,  it  was  obvious  that  they  must  have 
travelled  by  this.  He  clung  to  action  as  to  a  sacred 
medicine.  He  resolved  to  speed  after  them  with  the 
next  train. 

Thus  an  early  winter's  afternoon,  chill,  dismal  and 
cheerless,  saw  grief-wrought  Harry  pacing  nervously 
up  and  down  opposite  the  house  that  contained  his 
lost  treasure.  Little  he  knew  that  he  had  not  been  un- 
observed by  her!  Champing  on  the  bit  of  fear  he 
boldly  drew  to  the  house. 

Yes,  Rose  was  in;  would  he  step  in?  Yes;  he  would; 
and  did.  Antique  Alice  bore  no  sign  on  her  face  that 
she  knew  of  any  trouble. 

Yet  it  was  not  Rose  that  entered  to  him,  but  Mr. 
Bradley,  with  a  face  stern  and  severe,  militant  almost. 
It  quailed  Harry. 

"Rose  is  too  deeply  troubled  to  see  you,  Mr.  Den- 
zil."  The  voice  was  cold  and  charged  with  reproof, 
and  the  familiar  **Harry"  was  gone  down  the  wind  of 


Cogitations  343 

yesterday.  It  chilled  his  hearer.  "I  must  admit  my- 
self surprised  at  your  visit." 

''But  I  must  see  Rose,  Mr.  Bradley;  I  must  indeed. 
It's  too  terrible  that  this  should  go  on." 

Harry's  cry  rang  to  him.  With  the  sight  of  his 
anguished  face,  It  threw  Mr.  Bradley  into  perplexity 
as  challenging  his  trite  judgment. 

''But "  he  began,  when  Harry  broke  in  vio- 
lently— 

"What  right  have  you  got  to  come  in  between  us? 
You  haven't,  you  know  you  haven't,  Mr.  Bradley; 
neither  you  nor  anybody." 

"But  I  don't  understand  you,  you  have  me  at  a  dis- 
advantage. You  seem  to  speak  as  though  you 
were  the  one  that  has  received  an  injury,  not 
Rose." 

"Oh,  I  know  she  is  suffering.  Isn't  that  the  chief 
thing  that  Is  torturing  me  now?  I  can't  get  her  face, 
as  she  looked  at  me  yesterday,  out  of  my  mind.  But 
it's  her  pride  has  done  it.  That's  what  is  scourging 
both  of  us." 

"Her  pride !"  Mr.  Bradley's  astonishment  rose  in 
his  voice.     "Her  pride!" 

"Yes.  Oh,  I  could  make  it  right  in  a  few  moments 
if  I  could  only  see  her.  How  can  I  explain  all  this 
that  I  see  now  to  an  outsider?     It's  not  decent." 

Mr.  Bradley  looked  at  Harry  for  a  few  minutes, 
then  went  over  and  rang  the  bell.  When  Alice  ap- 
peared he  asked  her  to  bid  Rose  come  to  him. 

"She  has  gone  out,"  said  that  domestic. 

"Out!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bradley;  and  Harry  echoed 
the  word. 

"Yes,  sir,  she  went  out  a  few  minutes  ago." 

"Very  well,  Alice,"  said  Mr.  Bredlay;  and  when 
Alice  had  gone  he  turned  and  said  to  Harry:  "There 


344  Broken  Arcs 

you  are,  my  boy;  there^s  your  answer;  this  time  from 
Rose,  not  from  an  outsider." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you,  Mr.  Bradley.  But 
isn't  this  terrible?  Isn't  it  terrible?"  He  sat  down 
and  bowed  his  head  into  his  hands. 

"I  really  find  you  very  difficult  to  understand,  I 
must  say,"  said  Mr.  Bradley,  looking  down  at  him 
perplexedly,  judgment  on  him  and  pity  for  him  min- 
gling strangely  in  his  thought. 

Harry  made  him  no  reply. 

"I  suppose,"  went  on  Mr.  Bradley,  "it's  another 
case  of  wanting  just  that  thing  we  don't  happen  to 
have.  Having  Rose  you  want  a  mistress,  losing 
her " 

"I — what!"     Harry's  astonishment  greeted  iiim. 

"I  don't  wish  to  be  harsh." 

Harry  rose  to  him. 

"Did  Rose  tell  you  this?"  he  asked. 

"As  I  say,  I  don't  wish  to  be  harsh,  Harry,  my 
boy." 

"Oh,  I  have  no  blame  of  her;  none!  She's  dis- 
traught, poor  girl,  I  know  that;  I  wouldn't  blame  her, 
God  knows.  But  it  isn't  like  that,  Mr.  Bradley.  I'm 
not  that  sort  of  a  man,  however  full  of  fault  I  am.  I 
don't  love  lightly;  I  don't  think  I  could;  it  isn't  in  me. 
I  fell,  but  Heaven  knows  that's  a  different  thing. 
Though  I  say  it  who  perhaps  shouldn't,  I  have  thought 
it  was  the  very  good  in  me  that  caused  me  to  stumble. 
If  I  had  been  a  brute  I  would  have  kept  my  feet." 

Mr.  Bradley  looked  more  and  more  perplexed.  His 
manner  changed  to  kindliness. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "tell  me  the  story  as  you  see 
it." 

Harry  shrank  at  the  thought. 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  can't.     Not  to  anybody;  not  even 


Cogitations  345 

to  Rose.  It  wouldn't  be  decent.  I'm  not  a  profes- 
sional saint,  that  I  can  afford  to  trapse  my  sins  about 
the  place.  I  can  only  say  that  I  meant  well  to  this 
girl;  so  far  as  I  know  myself  I  genuinely  did.  But 
she  trapped  me,  and  I  fell  once ;  once  only,  and  hated 
myself  for  it.  In  fact,  I  never  loved  Rose  as  much  as 
I  did  then.  Nor  do  I  blame  this  girl.  They  live 
pretty  rotten  kind  of  lives,  those  girls.  Whoever 
blames  them,  I  daren't.  She  seemed  to  want  me, 
strangely  enough.  I  suppose  she  won  me,  though  I 
refuse  to  own  the  man  she  won  as  myself." 

"You  corresponded,  however." 

"She  wrote  to  me,  wanting  to  renew  her  conquest, 
I  suppose."  Harry  spoke  dejectedly,  then  flashed  to 
spirit.  "Mr.  Bradley,  if  unfaithfulness  means  any- 
thing, this  isn't  it.  You  know  that ;  because  you  think. 
I  failed,  I  know;  but  by  every  axiom  of  morality  I 
ought  to  be  forgiven  on  remorse.  And  I  do  admit  my 
fault;  absolutely:  she  can't  blame  me  as  much  as  I  do 
myself.  Can  any  man  do  more?  No,  the  present 
trouble's  her  pride."  He  faced  Mr.  Bradley.  He 
struggled  to  express  a  thought  that  moved  in  him. 
"Do  you  remember  how  she  almost  refused  me  at  first 
because  I  had  to  make  sacrifices  for  her?" 

"Yes." 

"Well ;  it's  the  same  thing  now.     Not  that  I  blame 
her.     It's  not  I  that  should  blame  her." 
^    "But,  Harry,  you  must  remember    there's  such  a 
thing  as  shattered  faith." 

"I  know,"  said  Harry  gloomily. 

"She  had  an  extraordinary  faith  in  you.  So  had  I. 
I  don't  exonerate  you;  I  don't  understand  you,  you're 
so  unlike  myself.  I  can  forgive  you.  But  what  am 
I?  You'ce  calling  her  to  the  position  of  wife,  which 
is  quite  a  different  matter.     You  can't  expect  the  same 


34^  Broken  Arcs 

standard  of  aloofness  from  her.  Besides,  remember  I 
she  has  had  a  previous  disappointment." 

Harry  winced.  The  words,  too,  awoke  a  curious 
discomfort,  a  dim  Intangible  somewhat  that  was  not 
to  develop  to  maturity  till  a  much  later  time. 

Alice  came  in  to  lay  tea,  and  Mr.  Bradley  said  to 
her — 

*Tell  Rose  I  want  her  directly  she  comes  in.  And 
let  Jim  have  his  tea  In  with  you." 

Ahce  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  dim  sense 
of  trouble. 

Time  passed,  but  yet  no  Rose  appeared.  Each 
looked  at  the  other  troublously. 

"If  you  took  my  advice,  Harry,"  said  Mr.  Bradley; 
"you  would  return  now,  and  see  her  after  a  lapse  of 
time.  You  must  see  that  her  mind  is  in  a  whirl  of 
distress,  and  all  she  wants  now  Is  a  chance  to  collect 
her  thoughts." 

"But  what  about  myself?"  exclaimed  Harry.  The 
egotism  of  suffering  demands  Indulgence. 

"I  know." 

"Besides,"  said  Harry,  fearfully  and  doubtfully; 
"she  may  collect  her  thoughts  with  an  inimical  direc- 
tion, and  that's  what  I  want  to  forestall." 

"You  scarcely  express  much  faith  in  her  affection." 

"I  know  It  bears  that  Interpretation.  But  the  possi- 
bility's In  the  test  of  human  nature,  I  think." 

"Besides,"  said  Mr.  Bradley,  a  beam  of  hope  shin- 
ing on  and  from  him;  "there's  another  Influence  In 
your  favour.  There's  a  man  here  who  has  been  pes- 
tering her  for  some  time;  has  proposed  twice  In  point 
of  fact " 

"What?" 

Mr.  Bradley  looked  up  amazedly  at  an  upstanding 
angry  Harry  Denzil  with  accusing  hand. 


Cogitations  34*7 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  some  man  here  has  pro- 
posed  marriage  to  her?*' 

''But  what ?" 

"Oh,  this  makes  much  plain.  I  was  never  told  of 
this.  No  wonder  she  flew  off  at  a  tangent  so  quickly. 
Oh,  Mr.  Bradley,  Mr.  Bradley!" 

"My  dear  boy,  she  hates  him,  abominates  him!" 

''Does  she?" 

"Well,  on  my  honour,  you  young  people  are  strange 
beings !  First  Rose,  and  then  you,  till  I  don't  know 
where  I  am." 

"But  can't  you  see  the  connection?" 

"No,  I'm  blessed  If  I  can.  Still,  If  It's  any  consola- 
tion—     Well,  what  Is  It?" 

A  knock  on  the  door  was  followed  by  Alice  with  a 
note.  Mr.  Bradley  took  It  and  read  It  with  puckered 
brow  and  muttering  lips  twice  and  thrice  over. 

"All  right,"  said  he;  and  turning  to  Harry:  "It's 
from  Rose.     She  says  she's  not  coming  back  to-night." 

'What?"  ^   The  Interrogation  was  a  wall  of  despair. 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  let  you  read  It.  I'm  sorry  for 
you,  Harry;  but  perhaps  It's  wisest.  She  says  she 
may  see  you  later  when  she's  calmer.  This  letter  Is 
certainly  evidence  of  some  extraordinary  tempest  In 
her  mind.  I  never  read  anything  like  It.  It  makes 
me  quite  fearful  for  her." 

"Not  coming  back,  you  say."  The  words  were 
numb. 

"Not  to-night.  She  says  she'll  be  back  to-morrow, 
but  Insists  that  you  should  not  be  here.  I'm  sorry, 
my  lad,  very  sorry,"  he  went  on,  for  Harry  was  chew- 
ing on  his  lip  to  restrain  the  tears  that  he  deemed 
mocked  his  manhood.  "As  I  say,  perhaps  It's  wiser 
so,  though  of  course  that's  smug  consolation.  Any- 
way, there  It  Is!" 


348  Broken  Arcs 


XVII 

Rose  had  passed  through  the  street  in  a  dream  after 
leaving  Harry.  She  was  numb.  Her  eyes  gazed 
blankly  ahead  of  her;  she  saw  none,  heeded  none, 
cared  for  none.  It  was  only  when  she  returned  back 
to  the  hotel  that  a  tempest  of  passion  had  shattered 
her,  relieving  her  withal.  All  life  has  doubtless  its 
compensations:  the  very  passion  of  primitive  natures 
brings  its  relieving  numbness.  She  grew  numb  with 
grief. 

Yet  her  numbness  melted  again  to  fury  of  grief  at 
Mr.  Bradley's  tender  and  anxious  solicitation.  One 
had  alarmed  him  as  much  as  the  other.  But  her  some- 
what incoherent  relation  of  events  raised  him  to  anger. 
Its  very  incoherence  raised  enmity  in  his  mind;  which, 
with  his  quick  sympathy  for  the  palpitating  girl  before 
him,  had  painted  him  a  hoofed  and  horned  Harry  in- 
deed. He  had  declared  his  intention  of  promptly 
dealing  with  the  miscreant  who  had  so  falsely  tricked' 
him  of  his  faith.  Even  her  plea  could  scarcely  make 
him  desist.  He  only  forewent  his  decision  of  haling 
Harry  forth  for  the  rods  of  reproof  when  he  saw  how 
doubly  this  distressed  her.  Her  plea  for  immediate 
flight  found  a  ready  adherent  in  him.  She  shrank 
from  contact  with  reality;  she  fled  into  herself  even 
as  she  had  done  years  before:  and  he  leapt  to  shield 
her  with  equal  zest. 

Jim's  eyes  had  grown  rounder  at  their  flight.  But 
he  had  said  nothing.  He  found  it  passing  difficult  to 
discover  a  sequence  of  motive  in  the  movements  of  his 
elders.  The  salient  facts  of  his  life  seemed  to  be,  that 
for  a  goodly  turn  of  years  he  had  been  without  a 
father,  which,  somehow,  somewhere,  seemed  to  make 


Cogitations  340 

it  difficult  for  him  to  account  satisfactorily  for  his  ex- 
istence In  the  state  of  affairs.     He  had  then  discovered 
a  father,  and  this  was  the  greater  source  of  joy  to  him 
as  he   altogether  approved  of  the  person.     But  no 
sooner^  found  than  he  had  been  snatched  away  again, 
and  raised  to  the  unsatisfactory  glory  of  a  myth.     He 
had  believed,   had  believed   on   authority,    that   this 
mythopoeic  state  was  about  to  be  concluded:  which 
was  secret  joy  to  him,  for  he  craved  actuality.     He 
would  rather  stroke  the  hand  of  a  real  father  In  an 
arm-chair  than  worship  a  mythic  father  in  the  heavens: 
so  mortal  was  he.     But  now.  If  there  was  any  mean- 
ing to  be  caught  from  the  Innuendos  and  apocopated 
sentences  that  crossed  between  his  red-eyed  mother 
and    his    brow-ruffled   grandfather,    all    question     of 
father  was  gone,  and  he  was  back  again  in  his  father- 
less state.     It  was  perplexing;  very  perplexing.     Per- 
haps one  day  he  would  understand  It.     But  he-  deter- 
mined now  to  spend  all  his  life  In  search  for  a  thor- 
oughly satisfactory  father.     So  he  grew  to  obsession. 
Anyway,  it  seemed  obvious  that  it  would  be  extremely 
unwise  for  him  to  seek  elucidation  of  his  difficulties  at 
the  present  juncture;  and  so  he  drew  In  to  his  own 
thoughts  and  ruminations  more  than  ever. 

Neither  Rose  nor  Mr.  Bradley,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, paid  much  heed  to  him.  Her  grief  over- 
whelmed her  because  it  was  enmeshed  with  all  her  life 
and  scheme  of  being;  and  through  her  it  absorbed 
him. 

The  familiarity  of  home  had  served  to  deaden  her 
emotion.  But  it  was  with  a  shock  that  she  had  seen 
Harry  pacing  up  and  down  outside  the  house.  Judged 
by  her  emotions  his  visit  was  scarcely  wise.  Her  very 
love  for  him,  her  very  concern  for  him,  served  to  raise 
the  greater  tempest  in  her  mind.     She  fought  against 


350  Broken  Arcs 

these  things  as  the  weaknesses  in  her.  She  fled  to 
Mr.  Bradley,  telling  him  who  was  without,  and  that 
she-  could  not,  dared  not,  see  him. 

Nevertheless,  his  very  presence  in  the  house  de- 
stroyed her  balance.  She  longed  only  for  rest  and 
peace  of  mind;  artificial  peace,  if  need  be.  Therefore 
Mr.  Bradley  had  scarcely  been  closeted  in  with  Harry 
when  she  crept  out  of  the  front  door,  and  fled  for  the 
sea  breezes. 

She  went  down  to  the  front.  Few  were  abroad,  for 
a  heavy  fog  hung  over  the  Channel.  From  out  the 
midst  of  it  she  could  hear  sirens  and  whistles  sounding, 
and  thought  of  the  unseen  monsters  that  thundered 
through  the  waters  from  far  shores,  or  were  now  ven- 
turing out  having  in  prospect  tropical  heat  and  reful- 
gence. It  brought  back  to  her  mind  her  old  hunger 
for  travel.  It  fascinated  her,  and  found  employment 
for  her  imagination.  It  seemed  like  an  inscrutable 
mystery  being  wrought  before  her.  Out  yonder  there, 
in  this  chill  palpable  gloom,  were  unseen  craft  quiver- 
ing with  memory  of  Eastern  bounty  of  hue;  there  were 
men  who  loved  this  very  gloom  with  almost  filial  affec- 
tion, like  the  oath  of  a  treasured  comrade.  Out  yon- 
der were  wrenched  hearts,  wounded  emotions.  Out 
yonder  were  mystery  and  fear  of  disaster.  Each 
sounding  siren  came  like  an  intimate  voice  in  pain.  It 
tranced  her.  As  for  the  monster  that  held  them  in 
merciless  grip,  she  could  only  see  its  foamy  margins 
dimly,  as  they  licked  up  the  pebbly  beach,  and  re- 
treated with  hiss  and  snarl.  It  loomed  shadowy  and 
monstrous,  griping  its  green-white  figures  at  her.  It 
mocked  her,  laughed  at  her,  because  she  pitied  the  call- 
ing voices  of  pain  from  those  it  had  entrapped. 

She  sat  watching  and  thinking,  in  dreamy  pain. 
Then  she  fled  it  because  it  tortured  her.     Why  was 


Cogitations  ^  ^  j 

there  no  wind  to  buffet  ?  She  remembered  Boreas  was 
victor  this  day,  and  his  breath  could  not  reach  beneath 
these  south-western  cliffs.  She  journeyed  up  to  seek 
him.  As  she  did  so,  she  did  not  notice  a  burly  figure 
that,  having  sighted  her,  had  stopped,  and  then  strode 
after  her. 

She  buffeted  Boreas;  but  found  that  though  his 
breath  was  icy  it  lacked  power  withal.  So  she  would 
need  to  awake  adventitious  combat  by  swift  crisp 
walking.  ^ 

Thus  the  figure  that  followed  her  found  It  not  easy 
to   overtake  her.     She  stepped  swiftly  forward-   he 
strode  after  her.     Her  pace  puzzled  him.     Could  she 
have  sighted  him?     Hostility  arose  in  him.     At  least 
he  was  between  her  and  home.     His  eye  flashed  an- 
grily.    Twice  had  she  given  him  contumely.     But  this 
made  his  action   only  the   simpler.     For,   strangely! 
none  of  the  so-termed  gentler  sex  treated  him  with 
other    than    enmity.     And  therefore  his  attitude  to 
them  became  one  of  professed  hostility.     They  were 
not  to  be  wooed;  they  were  to  be  mastered.     They 
were  not  to  be  sought;    they  were  to  be  overborne, 
rhey  might  be  bought.     But  this  swiftly-speeding  girl 
before  awoke  passion  in  him.     If  need  be,  she  was  to 
be  buffeted  to  weakness.     If  placid  overbearing  failed, 
then  more  urgent  measures  were  best  adopted.     So 
he  sped  after  her. 

But  she  knew  nothing  of  this.  Her  thoughts  had 
reverted  to  Harry.  She  wondered  how  his  Interview 
was  proceeding.  She  pitied  him;  pitied  him  deeply 
but  could  do  nothing  other  than  flee  him.  She  heard 
steps  behind  her,  but  paid  no  heed  to  them.  Pres- 
ently a  voice  sounded  on  her  ear — 

"Mrs.  Foggettyl'* 

"You!"     She  wheeled  about  as  the  monosyllable 


352  Broken  Arcs 

fell  from  her  lips.  Her  face  blanched  and  her  hands 
trembled  as  she  faced  him. 

"You  walk  fast,"  he  said. 

She  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  him,  her  hands  clasp- 
ing and  unclasping. 

"Let  us  continue  the  walk,"  said  he,  pointing  ahead. 

Still  she  said  nothing. 

He  stepped  forward,  for  her  to  follow  him.  Swiftly 
she  turned  and  sped  back  again.  He  turned  and  made 
after  her,  muttering  an  imprecation.  She  heard  him 
do  so,  and  ran;  but  she  was  no  match  for  him.  She 
heard  him  running  heavily  after  her.  His  blood  had 
been  whipped  to  anger,  and  he  scarcely  knew  what  he 
was  doing.  Coming  abreast  of  her  he  seized  her 
swaying  wrist,  and  jerked  her  to  a  stop. 

"Mr.  Urquhart,  how  dare  you?"  she  ejaculated. 

"Why  do  you  run  away  from  me?"  he  said,  breath- 
ing heavily. 

"Because  I  hate  you  I" 

"Don*t  I  offer  you  everything?  all  that  a  man  can?" 

"I  hate  you,  I  hate  you.  You're  objectionable  to 
me. 

"So  IVe  heard  you  say  before.  But  I  assure  you 
I  intend  to  win  in  this  battle.  I  am  not  the  sort  that 
am  easily  put  off." 

"Can't  you  leave  me  alone?"  Appeal  cried  in  her 
voice. 

"What's  obstructing  you,  and  what  I've  got  to  over- 
come I  can  easily  see,  is  a  merely  temporary  prefer- 
ence for  this  chap — what's  his  name?  Denzil,  or 
something  like  that." 

"No,  no,  no!  I  hate  him,  tool"  She  quailed  at 
her  own  words. 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

**yes,  yes;  I  hate  everybody." 


Cogitations  353 

"OH,  very  well !  If  there's  no  preference  of  hatred 
for  me  then  IVe  good  reason  to  hope  for  the  best." 

"Please  leave  me  I'' 

"Certainly  not!" 

She  looked  about  her  like  a  hunted  hare.  Then  she 
fled  again,  he  after  her.  This  time  she  did  not  give  him 
time  to  arrest  her  flight,  but  wheeled  sharply  on  him. 

"Mr.  Urquhart,"  she  gasped,  "you're  a  perfect 
brute." 

"Believe  me,  I  have  no  wish  to  be,"  he  said.  "You 
arouse  It  In  me.  If  you  would  only  agree  to  my  pro- 
posal you  would  not  fall  to  find  me  most  attentive. 
And  I  understand  from  you  that  there's  now  no  fanci- 
ful objection  of  honour." 

She  hated  herself  for  her  words  to  this  man  reflect- 
ing ill  on  Harry. 

"Can  I  say  nothing  to  convince  you  how  utterly  im- 
possible It  is?"  she  said,  moving  her  arms  as  though 
to  throw  off  an  impalpable  weight. 

"I  fear,  nothing!"  He  stepped  nearer  her  as  she 
spoke. 

She  stepped  back  from  him,  and  stumbled  against 
a  stile.  Heavy  mists  were  gathering  about  the  coun- 
try, wrapping  them  about. 

"Mr.  Urquhart,  I  believe — I  shall  do  something  I 
shall  be  sorry  for — if  you  don't  go  away."  She  spoke 
in  terror  of  his  mere  physical  presence. 

"I  want  an  answer,  an  affirmative  answer,  now,"  he 
said,  stepping  yet  nearer.     His  voice  was  masterful. 

Something  flashed  before  him,  and  he  felt  a  sudden 
sting  on  his  cheek.  She  had  struck  him,  with  her 
clenched  fist. 

"You "  he  exclaimed,  words  failing  him  as  he 

surveyed  this  quivering  pack  of  nerves  in  grey  before 
him.     She  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 


354  Broken  Arcs 

"Go  away,  or  I  shall  do  it  again,"  she  cried,  and 
the  pain  of  unreason  rang  aloud  in  her  voice. 

"By  Heaven,  I  won't,  though!"  he  cried.  He 
wrapped  his  arms  about  her,  pinning  her  arms  down, 
and  tried  to  draw  her  face  to  his  lips.  She  cried  out, 
but  he  paid  no  heed  to  her.  She  struggled  to  free 
herself,  and  he  struggled  to  retain  her.  At  length  he 
overpowered  her  and  steadily  drew  her  lips  closer  to 
his.  She  tried  to  avert  her  face,  but  he  forced  it  op- 
posite his  again,  and  pressed  a  kiss  on  her  lips.  Again 
and  again  he  kissed  her. 

Suddenly,  with  a  quick  motion,  she  freed  herself. 
He  tried  to  avoid  her,  but  was  not  quick  enough,  for 
she  rained  blows  upon  his  face. 

He  cried  aloud  with  pain,  and  she  regarded  him  as 
he  spun  about  nursing  a  wounded  optic.  Her  whole 
frame  was  shaking  with  the  force  of  nervous  emotion. 
She  could  scarce  stand. 

But  this  was  an  opportunity  for  escape  that  defied 
neglect.  She  climbed  over  the  stile,  falling  prostrate 
in  the  field  beyond.  Raising  herself,  she  staggered 
forward  through  the  heavy  wet  grass,  being  soon  lost 
In  mist.  She  stumbled  down  a  ditch,  saving  herself 
from  a  headlong  fall  by  seizing  some  errant  branches 
of  a  whitethorn  hedge.  Through  this  she  found  her 
way,  and  lay  exhausted  in  a  wood  beyond. 

There  she  lay  and  sobbed  herself  to  quietness. 

It  was  dark  when  she  rose.  She  remembered  she 
had  left  Harry  at  home,  and  feared  to  return.  She 
scarcely  knew  how  to  define  her  thought  or  action  now, 
a  further  coil  of  trouble  was  more  than  ever  impossi- 
ble. Thus  she  sat,  a  frail  pitiful  object  Indeed,  seek- 
ing to  recollect  her  thought.  A  heavy  mist  was  darker 
than  the  darkness,  and  obscured  all  direction. 

Presently  the  rumble  of  a  cart  passing  in  the  gloom 


Cogitations  355 

gave  her  to  know  in  which  direction  lay  the  road. 
Thither  she  found  her  way  at  considerable  cost  to 
orderliness  of  raiment. 

At  length  she  struck  the  bustle  of  habitations.  It 
was  a  far-outlying  suburb  of  Winmouth.  Inspection 
of  her  purse  acquainted  her  with  the  fact  that  she  pos- 
sessed sufficient  money  for  hotel  fees.  Finding  one, 
she  wrote  to  Mr.  Bradley  telling  him  of  her  determi- 
nation not  to  return  that  night.  She  wrote  at  length, 
she  wrote  in  distress.  Then  she  sought  her  bed  for  a 
night  of  tears. 

When  she  returned  the  following  morning  her  first 
outpouring  to  her  solicitous  guardian  was  that  they 
must  leave  Winmouth  there  and  then,  with  no  possible 
delay.  That  something  grievous  had  happened  was 
too  obvious,  and  he  sought  to  know  what  it  was.  But 
he  could  extract  nothing  from  her.  Each  soul  has  a 
barrier  that  forbids  mention  of  indignities  done  in  its 
sacrosanct. 

He  regarded  her  emotional  chaos,  and  raised  no 
difficulty.  He  sought  to  know  whither  she  would  be 
taken. 

''London,  father;  London;  we  can  be  lost  there." 

He  looked  his  surprise.     She  caught  his  thought. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  she,  avoiding  mention  of 
Harry.  **But  it's  a  big  place,  and  we  can  be  lost 
there.     I  want  to  be  lost." 


XVIII 

An  ill-lit  tedious  train,  glorying  in  its  many  stops, 
rejoicing  to  make  the  cold  night  more  miserable  for  its 
human  freight,  bore  Harry  back  to  London.  He  had 
the  carriage  to  himself,  and  lay  In  log-like  slumber 


356  Broken  Arcs 

stretched  on  one  of  Its  seats.  There  are  nervous  souls 
whom  grief  baulks  of  sleep.  There  are  others  whom 
grief  so  exhausts  that  sleep  is  no  longer  a  tender  angel 
but  a  senseless  falling  into  a  void. 

London  was  wrapped  in  profound  slumber  when  he 
arrived,  chilled  to  the  bone.  Walking  over  Waterloo 
Bridge  he  apostrophized  the  leaden-hued,  rolling 
Thames  as  a  certain  dark-thoughted  Poet's  River  of 
Suicides.  He  leant  over  the  parapet  and  surveyed  it. 
It  seemed  he  gazed  down  an  impenetrable  height  at  a 
sinuous  scaly  serpent  below.  He  turned  away  shud- 
dering, the  vertigo  of  height  leaving  a  miasma  in  his 
brain.     To  be  rid  of  it,  he  trod  swiftly  forward. 

Footing  the  Embankment  he  surveyed  the  derelicts 
of  humanity  with  mingled  pity  and  revulsion.  Sodden 
and  chilled  they  lay  like  dark  blots  of  accusation  at  a 
luxurious  city.  He  surveyed  them,  and  reviled  In  his 
thought  the  palaces  of  luxury  at  whose  feet  they  lay. 
At  the  roof  of  one  of  the  palaces  flared  a  lurid  beacon, 
casting  ochreous  refulgence  to  a  heavy  sky.  He 
thought  to  lie  by  them  and  sleep  with  them,  but  he 
sickened  at  the  thought.  This,  thought  he.  Is  the  boon 
of  civilization:  at  least  savagery  is  quit  of  this!  The 
whole  thing  filled  him  with  distaste.  In  a  sudden  pity 
he  took  out  what  money  his  pockets  held,  to  distribute 
it  among  them.  He  shook  one  or  two  of  the  derelicts 
for  that  purpose,  but  could  not  wake  them  from  their 
sodden  slumbers,  try  as  he  would.  He  marvelled  that 
they  could  even  sleep :  but  such  sleep !  A  raucous 
voice  hailed  him  in  the  silence,  bidding  him  mind  what 
he  was  about,  and  he  saw  a  burly  constable  come  float- 
ing over  from  the  City's  Gardens  in  protection  of 
these  Its  cherished  Inhabitants.  He  slunk  away  like  a 
criminal,  the  richer  In  coin. 

The  thought  of  Fleet  Street  filled  him  with  distaste, 


Cogitations  357, 

and  therefore  fascinated  him.  He  trod  his  way 
thither,  up  through  dark  sloping  alleys  that  boomed 
with  printing  machinery.  He  thought  that  probably 
some  of  his  own  work  was  passing  through  this  ma- 
chinery, and  trod  on.  Fleet  Street  was  all  bustle  and 
activity,  an  oasis  of  activity  In  an  ocean  of  sleep.  He 
gazed  at  the  rumbling  vans  and  knots  of  conversing 
humanity,  and  forgot  that  It  was  the  small  hours  of 
morning. 

But  he  did  not  wish  activity,  he  wished  silence, 
deadly  isolation.  And  so  he  turned  towards  the 
Strand.  Beneath  a  towering  spire,  gleaming  with  am- 
ber Illumination  of  the  lower  lights  and  disappearing 
magnificently  into  night,  a  stall  dispensed  hot  and 
watery  refreshment.  Mingling  with  the  custom  that 
surrounded  It,  a  harlot  of  the  people  jested  with  him. 
He  turned  on  her  with  a  bitter  comment,  causing  her 
to  seek  sympathy  from  a  stoic  carman.  Feeling 
shamed  at  the  lash  he  had  delivered  to  a  fellow-suf- 
ferer with  him  In  life,  he  turned  and  apologized  cour- 
teously, whereat  she  laughed  loudly  and  took  his  arm. 
From  the  scant  notice  the  others  took  of  them  this 
appeared  an  ordinary  episode. 

He  trod  westward.  Warmed  now,  he  lit  his  pipe. 
Passing  through  the  odoriferous  mart  that  bartered 
the  produce  of  the  earth,  he  surveyed  awhile  the  horse- 
less wagons  piled  to  the  heavens  with  roots  and  herb- 
age. In  silent  and  numberless  array  awaiting  subse- 
quent dismantling,  and  journeyed  on  westward. 
Threading  unlnterestedly  through  Its  streets  weariness 
overcame  him:  the  silence  aided  it.  He  could  have 
returned  to  Chelsea,  having  still  his  key,  but  revulsion 
seized  him  at  the  thought.  Finding  out  Hyde  Park 
he  surreptitiously  climbed  its  forbidding  railings,  and 
slept  on  a  bench  beneath  its  mist-dripping  trees. 


358  Broken  Arcs 

He  did  not  wake  till  dawn,  and  he  felt  chilled  to  the 
bone.  He  ran  still  farther  westward  to  Knightsbrldge, 
then  ran  sharply  back  again.  Warmed  thus,  he 
sought  out  a  meal,  and  then  wandered  among  the  peo- 
ple that  began  to  gather  thickly  In  the  streets.  For  a 
time  he  found  consolation  thus  among  the  jostling  mul- 
titudes. But  it  palled  on  him.  Purchasing  a  novel 
whose  livid  title,  accompanied  by  a  correspondingly 
vivid  cover-illustration,  tempted  his  weary  and  sated 
thought,  he  went  into  a  hotel-lounge  and  read  It.  It 
sickened  him,  however,  and  leaving  it  he  went  out 
again  to  journey  from  tavern  to  tavern. 

Late  that  night  as  Battersby  was  mulling  a  glass  of 
wine,  to  take  to  his  bedroom  with  him,  he  heard  a  ring 
at  his  flat  door.  Muttering  execration  and  astonish- 
ment he  opened  it,  and  Harry  lurched  into  his  arms. 

*'Good  God,  Denzil,  what  the  devil's  the  matter?" 
he  exclaimed,  seeing  who  it  was. 

**Matter?  Nothing!  Want  to  come  in!"  said 
Harry. 

Battersby  supported  him  Into  the  room  he  had  just 
quitted.     He  sat  him  on  a  sofa  and  surveyed  him. 

"Well,  you  look  a  pretty  sight,  I  must  say,"  he  said. 
*'Why,  your  clothes  are  sodden  wet."  He  brushed 
the  damp  off  his  coat  sleeve. 

"Girrs  chucked  me  I"  Harry  looked  on  the  ground 
unsteadily. 

This  tragic  note  produced  a  tension  in  Battersby's 
mind,  which  he  sought  to  relieve  by  a  low  whistle. 

*'0h!"  said  he  at  length.  "That's  rotten,  ain't  It? 
Frightfully  sorry,  you  know  I  am.  And  thanks  for 
the  compliment  of  coming  round.  One  likes  to  feel 
one's  some  kind  of  good  In  this  world.  But  that's  no 
reason,  is  it,  old  chap,  to  go  in  for  this  kind  of  weak- 
ness?" 


Cogitations  359 

**  'Tisn't  weakness,  It's  strength." 

''Eh?" 

"So  it  is!    YouVe's  dull  as  the  rest." 

"Habet!     I  admit  the  charge." 

"So  you  are!  Strength's  first  cousin  to  weakness; 
extremes  always  are!" 

Battersby  looked  on  his  friend,  and  saw  a  strange 
sight.  The  fumes  of  wine  had  overpowered  his 
thought.  But  now  that  thought  got  to  work  it  began 
to  dominate  and  rise  above  the  narcotic  influence. 
Slowly  it  asserted  its  transcendence. 

"If  you  thought  a  bit,  you'd  see  that.  Of  course 
it's  so.  It's  emotion  makes  the  man,  you  must  see 
that.  Mine's  so  big  that  it  makes  me  seem  weak  if 
I'm  afraid  of  it.  That's  what  it  is."  Harry  gesticu- 
lated his  point.  "If  I  was  just  a  damned  thinking- 
machine  I'd  be  less  the  man,  and  this  thing  wouldn't 
be  so  much  to  me.  But  it's  damned  thinking-machines 
that  are  weak,  because  they've  got  nothing  to  be  strong 
about — not  I,  that  have !  They're  nothing,  I  am ;  I'm 
something.  By  God!  you  see  that,  Battersby,  don't 
you?     You  see  that!" 

Battersby  gazed  in  alarm  as  Harry  sprang  up  and 
started  striding  about,  gesticulating  and  arguing  his 
point. 

"It's  obvious.  I'm  strong;  I  say  it  who  shouldn't, 
because  I  think  it's  true.  I'm  strong,  and  that's  what 
makes  me  seem  weak.  Good  Heavens !  So  plain,  too ! 
so  devilish  plain !  I  put  all  my  whole  strength  to  get 
something,  to  love  somebody;  and  now  that  that's  all 
gone  it's  turning  on  me  and  rending  me.  Call  that 
weakness!  It's  to  confuse  words  to  think  so.  Good 
God!  No,  don't  stop  me!  I'm  all  right,  I  knew 
very  well  what  I'm  about,  although,  by  God,  I  think 
I'm  going  mad.     I'm  fighting  against  myself,  and  it's 


360  Broken  Arcs 

fiendish.  Vm  fighting  my  own  strength.  I  took  wine 
to  lay  It  under,  but  youVe  called  it  all  up  to  life  again. 
And  you  call  It  weakness!  weakness!  weakness!*'  He 
passed  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  laughed  wildly. 
"Weakness,  forsooth!" 

Battersby  had  tried  several  times  to  restrain  his 
friend,  but  fruitlessly.  He  sank  back  in  his  chair  help- 
lessly. "If  this  Isn't  a  brain-storm,"  thought  he,  "then 
I  don't  know  what  It  is  goes  by  that  name.  And  he 
knew  better  how  to  treat  it  than  I.  He  snowed  It 
under  with  wine,  and  I  dragged  it  out  again.  Good 
heavens!  he'll  go  mad  if  he  goes  on  like  that!" 

Quickly  seizing  his  glass  of  mulled  wine,  he  filled  it 
up  and  handed  it  to  Harry. 
t^^     "Here  you  are,  Denzll!     Take  this!"  he  said. 
^'  "      "Yes,  yes.     Give  it  me !"  said  Harry,  and  taking  it 
drank  it  off  without  a  stop.     "You're  a  good  chap, 
Battersby,"  he  said.     "I'm  sorry  to  be  all  this  nuisance 
to  you.     I'll  go!" 
;^  "No,  you  don't,"  said  Battersby,   springing   after 

'      him.  "You  just  come  over  to  your  old  friend  the  sofa." 

"Old  friend,  yes!  I  was  In  the  full  hey-day  of  love 
then,  wasn't  I?"  He  permitted  himself  to  be  led  sub- 
missively over. 

He  lay  down,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  breathing  suffi- 
ciently heavily,  Battersby  brought  some  rugs  and 
covered  him  over;  then  went  softly  out  of  the  room, 
muttering  as  he  went,  "Rum  thing,  human  nature !" 

Thrice  that  night  Battersby  came  down  to  see  how 
Harry  fared.  Each  time  he  was  muttering  in  his 
sleep,  but  it  was  obvious  he  was  indeed  asleep.  In 
fact,  so  profound  was  Harry's  slumber  that  It  delayed 
Battersby's  breakfast  to  the  point  of  discomfort.  He 
had  finally  to  wake  him. 

Harry  was  no  sooner  awake  than  he  was  in  full 


Cogitations  3^i 

memory  of  all  that  had  happened,  declaring  his  inten- 
tion to  be  gone. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  said  Battersby.  "YouVe  just 
jolly  well  got  to  earn  your  night's  lodging  by  helping 
me  with  my  proofs  all  day.  And  as  I  don't  intend  to 
let  an  unclean  wretch  like  you  mess  about  with  my 
work,  you'd  better  bathe  and  shave." 

''Battersby!"  said  Harry,  with  more  emotion  than 
he  cared  to  show,  "you're  among  the  angels." 

Later  Battersby  sought  to  discover  what  the  seat 
of  the  trouble  was,  but  he  could  learn  nothing  from 
Harry  more  than  that  his  betrothed  had  rejected  him, 
and  that  he  assumed  whatever  blame  and  fault  there 
was.  He  did  not  permit  Harry  to  leave  him  till  he 
was  setting  out  for  the  office. 

Reaching  home,  Harry  surveyed  his  room,  bitterly 
recalling  the  scene  of  a  few  days  previous.  He  noticed 
with  a  start  that  his  ring  still  lay  where  Rose  had 
placed  it.  He  took  it  and  put  it  in  his  cash-box  method- 
ically. Then  he  removed  all  the  photographs  of  Rose, 
including  those  in  which  he  figured  with  her,  grimly, 
well-nigh  sneeringly. 

Having  set  his  room  in  order  he  attacked  his  letters. 
He  noticed  one  from  Gwendoline,  and  picked  it  up 
first.  He  was  about  to  hurl  it  away,  but  desisted; 
reading  it  instead.  His  heart  beat  quickly  as  his  eye 
caught  sight  of  Rose's  handwriting  inside.  Turning 
eagerly  to  Gwen's  letter,  he  read — 

"My  Dear  Hal, 

"I  got  this  letter  from  your  'young  lady.'  I 
didn't  think  you  were  the  sort  to  have  given  me  away 
like  this.  I'm  disappointed.  But  men  are  all  the 
same.  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  future.  Judging  by 
her  letter  you've  dropped  on  hot  stuff. 


362  Broken  Arcs 

"I  wrote  you  some  days  ago  to  tell  you  that  my  boy 
wants  me  to  go  to  Paris  with  him,  and  to  ask  you  if 
you  would  like  me  to  stay.  I  would  have  stayed  for 
you.  But  not  having  any  reply  (and  after  this  let- 
ter!) I've  decided  to  go.  I  go  next  Sunday.  If  you 
like  you  can  come  and  say  good-bye. 

"Your  pal  that  was, 

"GWEN. 

"P.  S. — You're  not  a  bad  boy,  Hal,  but  you  need  to 
pull  your  socks  up." 

Harry  turned  to  Rose's  letter,  and 'as  he  read  it,  it 
half  moved  him  to  anger,  half  touched  him  to  tears, 
It  surged  with  bitter  hatred  of  Gwen,  and  was  evi- 
dently written  on  the  very  night  of  their  separation, 
A  man  he,  he  could  not  comprehend  the  mood  that 
could  display  itself  In  such  bitter  reviling.  It  mad( 
him  shamefast  to  read  it.  But  the  wail  that  sounded 
in  his  ears  from  the  reading  of  it  gave  him  to  know 
how  much  his  loss  was  to  Rose,  and  how  absolutely 
her  faith  had  been  shattered.  He  could  not  under- 
stand her  rejection  of  him  In  the  face  of  It.  And  yet 
he  understood  it  sufficiently  well  to  accept  it.  Read- 
ing it  again  it  moved  him  to  tears. 

As  he  was  reading  it  the  maid  came  in  to  know  if  Ke 

wished  a  fire.     Yes,  he  did.     So  she  laid  and  lit  It. 

^Sitting  by  its  cracklln&Jtorks  of  flame  he  lit  his  pipe 

aird  sought  to  think  out  what  his  future  now  meant  to 

him. 

It  faced  him  blankly  with  nothing  to  tempt  or 
beckon  him.  With  a  cry  of  pain  he  arose.  Tearing 
up  the  review  he  had  been  half  through,  he  re-wrote 
it — this  time  couched  in  a  bitter  strkin. 


K 


BOOK   IV  -**   ^ 


CONCLUSIONS 


•^ 


Su*' 


High  noon  and  high  summer  demand,  for  fit  appre- 
ciation, a  lithe  swinging  hammock  beneath  a  mottled 
orchard  shade.  Those  who  are  wise  and  fortunate 
rejoice  in  it;  those  who  are  wise  and  unfortunate  fu- 
tilely  crave  it;  those  who  are  fortunate  yet  foolish 
neglect  it.  Were  it  laid  down  for  a  sociological  axiom 
that  at  such  a  time  such  a  pleasure  was  the  inalienable 
right  of  mankind,  the  immediate  political  effect  might 
be  dire,  but  the  subsequent  effect  on  the  temper  of  man- 
kind could  not  but  be  healthy  and  desirable.  An  in- 
cidental effect  would  be  to  weed  the  wise  from  the 
foolish. 

As  it  chanced,  the  wise  and  the  foolish  were  inex- 
tricably mixed  in  a  certain  street  in  the  west  of  London 
on  such  a  day.  Summer  had  gone  by  in  pomp  of 
beauty,  but  was  still  present  in  pomp  of  power.  Its 
flowery  garlands  were  withering  from  fragrance,  its 
feathered  chorals  had  thinned  from  the  full-voiced 
choir  to  a  slender  and  weary  note  here  and  there.  But 
yonder  sun  that  rose  to  its  southern  zenith  had  lost 
nothing  of  its  power:  had  gained,  rather.  It  poured 
down  its  molten  fury  on  suffering  humanity.  Pale 
faces  in  the  crowd  expressed  unutterable  weariness  at 
the  intolerable  state  of  affairs.  Not  all  the  faces  were 
weary,  however. 

The  curious  festival  known  to  its  initiates  as  the 
Summer  Sales  had  arrived.  Worshippers  from  far 
and  near  had  arrived,  their  faces  expressing  varying 
degrees  of  fervour  and  zealotry.     They  might  have 

365 


366  Broken  Arcs 

been  termed  the  Foolish  for  having  eschewed  the 
charms  of  the  hammock  and  mottled  shade  aforesaid, 
save  that  it  is  an  acknowledged  fact  that  religious  fes- 
tivals are  only  things  of  derision  to  the  uninitiated.  So 
might  a  raw  Caucasian  have  ejected  a  derisive  tongue 
at  Eleusis.  Demeter,  however,  would  have  found  con- 
tentment more  than  enough  in  the  rapt  joy  to  be  seen 
on  the  faces  of  the  devotees.  Similarly  the  western 
shrines  of  London  wanted  not  mockers.  But  what 
cared  the  great  god  Bargain  as  he  scanned  the  myriad 
upturned  beautiful  faces  held  fast  with  one  ecstatic 
expression!  What  mattered  the  black-coated  Cauca- 
sians yonder,  in  whose  variously  hirsute  faces  alarm 
mingled  with  scorn,  with  now  and  then  benevolent  tol- 
erance !  His  devotees  were  smooth  and  beautiful,  and 
they  at  least  knew  the  great  mysteries  that  were  for- 
ward. To  them  he  was  willing  to  unfold  his  beauty; 
the  price  whereof  the  black-coated  strangers  yonder 
had  to  pay  in  penalty  for  their  scorn. 

Therefore  the  dogmas  already  laid  down  with  re- 
gard to  fashion  and  folly  have  to  be  qualified.  A 
greater  than  dogmas  had  come  to  suspend  their  logical 
insistence,  even  as  a  mystic  is  above  all  reason. 

Among  the  strangers  who  passed  through  the  wor- 
shippers with  amused  tolerance  was  Harry  Denzil. 
He  had  an  appointment  not  far  from  here,  and  to  fill 
up  his  hollow  of  time  he  had  turned  aside  his  highway 
to  mingle  in  this  festival.  A  fanatical  ejaculation  of 
awe  would  now  turn  his  head  in  one  direction;  a  group 
of  figures  bent  nearly  prostrate  with  reverence  would 
now  turn  his  attention  in  another  direction.  But  his 
body  floated  through  the  gay  waters  with  easy  unper- 
turbed motion. 

The  waters  were  gay  indeed.  The  great  god  Bar- 
gain had  laid  it  down  as  an  indispensable  adjunct  for 


Conclusions  367^ 

his  devotees  that  they  should  array  themselves  in  his 
own  gorgeous  vesture.  The  hues  of  the  chameleon 
were  here,  and  more  besides.  Dire  would  have  been 
the  fate  attending  that  frail  lizard  had  he  in  a  moment 
of  foolish  ambition  attempted  some  of  the  variegated 
hues  here  displayed.  It  was  a  festive  scene,  as  befit- 
ted a  festive  occasion.  The  very  shrines  themselves 
were  decked  with  the  glory  of  the  rainbow.  For  the 
less  versed  in  the  rites,  gay  directions  were  displayed 
beside  the  necessary  objects  of  worship. 

The  worshippers  were  in  high  ecstasy,  forgetful  of 
all  else.  So  none  of  them  heeded  Harry  as  he  moved 
fearlessly  among  them.  He  found  their  throngs 
sociable  and  companionable.  He  had  come  to  love 
such  indiscriminate  company,  shunning  the  more  regu- 
lar avenues  of  companionship,  and  therefore,  while 
not  attempting  to  understand  matters  beyond  his  com- 
prehension, he  rejoiced  in  this  large  aggregate  com- 
panion he  had  found,  who  paid  no  heed  to  him.  The 
waters  lapped  about  him  in  soft  ablution  of  his  loneli- 
ness. 

Moreover,  he  even  took  interest  in  their  proceed- 
ings, seeking  to  discover  the  strange  occasion  of  their 
ecstasy.  A  crowd  of  some  ten  or  twelve,  he  noticed, 
bowed  all  of  them  in  reverent  posture  before  some  or 
other  saintly  relic  that  they  obscured  from  his  notice. 
Moving  over,  he  stood  beside  them.  Presently,  when 
their  prayers  were  finished,  and  they  had  moved  away, 
he  won  first  rank  and  stood  before  the  object  of  their 
worship.  In  a  plain  lacquer  reliquary  he  saw  a  coil  of 
what,  to  his  unsophisticated  and  cooler  brain,  seemed 
somewhat  crude  lace.  Some  of  its  strands  had  been 
drawn  out  and  twisted  about  the  lid  of  the  reliquary 
for  better  display.  His  mouth  twitched  as  he  watched, 
and  a  smile  flickered  over  his  lips.     A  close  observer, 


368  Broken  Arcs 

though  there  were  none  there,  might  have  called  his 
smile  a  sad  one.  Patiently  he  sought  to  discover  the 
sacredness  of  this  relic. 

As  he  did  so  a  laugh  struck  on  his  ear.  It  conveyed 
nothing  to  him,  but  the  voice  in  reply  blanched  his 
cheek.  It  seemed  to  come  not  so  much  from  without 
as  from  his  own  brain.  Without  knowing  it  he  turned 
sharply  about,  to  see  Rose  passing  before  him.  She 
was  in  conversation  with  a  companion. 

It  seemed  as  though  all  power  of  motion  had  faded 
from  his  limbs.  A  sudden  coldness  seized  him.  Mists 
grew  before  his  eyes,  and  to  save  himself  from  fall- 
ing he  put  out  his  hand  and  seized  something  that  was 
soft  in  his  grip.  An  exclamation  of  protest  brought 
him  to  himself. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he  absently  to  a  little  old 
gentleman  that  stood  opposite  him  with  meek  aspect 
and  angry  eyes. 

"And  so  I  think  you  should,''  replied  that  gentleman 
with  asperity,  moving  off  among  the  people  with  a 
suspicious  glance,  and  the  muttered  exclamation, 
"Most  extraordinary  proceeding!"  as  he  smoothed  out 
the  ruffled  lapel  of  his  coat. 

Harry  gave  him  but  a  glance  and  turned  to  see  Rose 
melting  through  the  crowd.  She  looked  strangely 
beautiful  in  white  summer  attire,  like  a  vision  over  a 
troubled  dream.  The  thought  came  to  him  to  speed 
swiftly  after  her.  But  her  friend  by  her  side  shone 
forbiddingly.  In  his  present  sudden  weakness  it  would 
have  been  no  easy  task  to  have  spoken  to  her  in  this 
crowd,  that  he  knew  dimly  of,  though  he  saw  it  not. 
But  before  this  other  girl  I     Should  he?     Could  he? 

Moreover,  he  seemed  strangely  incapable  of  mo- 
tion. An  icy  hand  crushed  his  brain.  His  hands 
clasped  and  unclasped.     As  they  did  so  another  hand 


Conclusions  3691 

was  thrust  into  one  of  his:  small,  slight;  and  timidly 
looking  down  he  saw  Jim  before  him.  The  lad's  eyes 
were  fixed  in  wide  commiseration  on  him. 

"Mother's  there,"  said  he. 

"So  I  see,  Jim,"  he  answered  somewhat  bitterly. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  her?"  said  Jim  slowly. 

The  thought  came  swiftly  on  him  to  snatch  the  lad 
up  and  take  him  to  his  mother,  finding  excuse  thus  for 
conversation.  But  a  strange  afterthought  held  him. 
He  almost  smiled. 

"I  think  perhaps  I'd  better  not,"  he  said. 

"Don't  you  want  to  speak  to  her,  fa — a — ?" 

Harry  heard  him  struggle  with  the  word  "father,'* 
and  was  stirred  to  his  depths. 

"I  do  very  much,  Jim." 

"She  often  cries  for  you." 

Harry's  thought  quailed  at  the  picture.  Inexpres- 
sible pity  seized  him. 

"Does  she?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

Harry's  thought  grew  to  a  sudden  resolve. 

"Very  well,  Jim,  you  shall  take  me  to  see  her.  But 
come  now !  let's  go  and  have  some  lunch  together." 

Rose  had  vanished  through  the  crowd,  and  he 
feared  to  pursue  her  now. 


II 

Moody  and  almost  listless  progress  had  marked 
Harry  during  the  interim  of  time  that  had  borne  him 
to  so  strange  a  meeting  with  Rose.  An  unbroken  and 
almost  overwhelming  spiritual  hunger  had  possessed 
him  for  weeks  continuously  prior  to  this  scene;  and  it 


370  Broken  Arcs 

was  born  of  a  distaste  of  life  that  had  its  roots  in  bit- 
ter experience. 

Within  a  fortnight  of  his  first  visit  to  Winmouth  he 
had  journeyed  thither  again — to  greet  an  empty  house, 
that  hung  abroad  an  invitation  to  prospective  denizens. 
It  seemed  incredible;  his  brain  defied  the  message  of 
its  outposts,  but  could  not  maintain  its  disbelief  before 
so  patent  and  irrefutable  a  piece  of  evidence.  That 
night  he  had  stayed  in  Winmouth.  Nothing  would 
tempt  the  new  address  from  the  Post  Office  officials; 
but  his  evident  desire  and  his  extraordinary  impor- 
tunity won  from  them  the  frail  piece  of  information 
that  it  was  to  the  Metropolis  Mr.  Bradley  had  wished 
his  letters  redirected.  This  given,  the  fear  of  having 
given  so  much  had  come  over  them,  and  he  could  not 
even  get  any  further  reply  from  them  on  the  subject. 
The  following  day  had  seen  him  borne  dejectedly  back, 
in  a  melancholy  that  had  subdued  his  previous  intense 
thought  to  torpor. 

A  tear-driven  letter  had  brought  him  two  replies. 
One  from  Rose  had  spoken  of  her  wounded  faith.  It 
scourged  him  with  a  spiritual  flail  as  he  had  read  it. 
She  did  not  say  much  in  it,  but  he  could  perceive  that 
she  had  bled  in  the  construction  of  it.  He  said  to 
the  memory  that  he  waved  before  his  eyes  of  her  that 
he  could  not  understand  her;  but  in  his  own  thought 
he  knew  well  that  he  could.  Her  quiet  insistence  con- 
veyed conviction.  She  wished,  if  she  could,  to  forget 
him.  In  a  delicately  veiled  reference  to  her  previous 
experience  she  said  that  perhaps  it  was  better  for  her 
not  to  think  of  lovers  and  wedlock;  that  she  was  too 
sensitive,  it  may  be.  She  praised  him,  she  extolled 
his  gifts,  she  expressed  no  doubt  of  his  career.  But 
it  was  better,  she  thought,  to  endure  this  pain  now 
than  court  a  fury  of  pain  in  later  years  when  there 


Conclusions  37  f 

could  be  no  unbinding  of  the  fatal  bond  between  them. 
She  said  she  grieved  to  pain  him,  for  she  knew  it 
pained  him  deeply;  she  could  only  plead  that  it  was  no 
less  a  pain  for  herself.  If  it  was  she  who  cut  the 
bond,  she  bled  not  less  than  he.  But  in  the  light  of 
the  past  she  could  not  think  without  deadly  fear  of  any 
legal  bond  between  them. 

Harry  had  cried  to  have  her  opposite  him,  for  he 
knew  that  he  could  then  have  convinced  her,  person- 
ally. He  had  written  seeking  at  least  an  interview, 
writing  by  way  of  Winmouth,  for  she  had  given  no 
address.  Her  reply  had  firmly,  yet  with  obvious  effort 
at  tenderness,  refused  this.  She  feared  such  an  inter- 
view for  she  feared  his  bodily  presence.  She  knew 
he  would  be  able  to  overwhelm  her  and  force  her 
against  her  conviction.  He  would  probably  enlist  her 
own  self  against  her  conviction,  and  she  would  not, 
dared  not,  court  it.  Mr.  Bradley's  letter  had  been 
quiet  and  searching.  It  commended  patience,  and  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  learn  if  Harry  changed  his  address. 
It  flashed  a  little  hope,  despite  its  application  of 
steel ;  whereas  her  letter  plunged  him  into  despair. 
Again,  a  month  thereafter,  he  had  written  her,  but  had 
received  no  reply. 

His  mind  refused  to  entertain  a  life  in  which  she 
did  not  figure.  Therefore  he  had  sought  to  escape 
the  terrible  mental  torture  of  wresting  his  conceptions 
to  a  prospect  they  refused;  he  had  sought  to  do  so  in 
divers  ways. 

Gwendoline  Farrer  dwelt  in  Paris.  At  least,  so  far 
as  he  knew,  she  did  so,  for  his  mind  turned  from  her 
with  something  almost  of  personal  revulsion.  Even 
had  she  been  near,  she  was  too  nearly  tied  with  some- 
thing much  like  affection  for  her  to  have  afforded  him 
the  abandon  of  forgetfulness.     Wine  was  a  narcotic 


37^  Broken  Arcs 

only  for  fierce  and  furious  strain,  not  for  the  intoler- 
able lethargy  of  despair.  His  delicacy  of  thought 
turned  with  loathing  from  a  steady  and  remorseless 
imbibing,  if  not  Induced  to  It  by  the  convivialities  of 
meet  company.  And  company  filled  him  with  horror: 
even  the  mere  thought  of  it. 

He  had  won  his  narcotic  when  he  wanted  it.  But 
brain-storms  are  not  induced  by  such  unutterable  leth- 
argies of  despair  as  had  seized  him.  Now  and  then 
he  would  bring  forth  her  ring,  or  produce  her  portrait, 
in  a  desire  for  self-torment;  and  then  they  would  seize 
him,  taking  him  nigh  to  madness  on  a  river  of  tears. 
At  such  times  his  red  narcotic  would  foam  to  his  lips, 
never  mastering  his  manhood;  mastering  rather  his  too 
urgent  blood,  for  he  was  stout  of  brain. 

Stranger  sirens  won  him.  In  their  laps  he  had 
found  abandon;  on  their  lips  he  had  purchased  revelry. 
But  he  had  grown  to  dread  their  felicities;  for  a  grey 
morn  had  always  brought  a  thrice-beautiful  Rose  to 
his  waking  memory,  and  he  had  looked  with  something 
perilously  like  venom  of  hatred  on  the  face  pillowed 
beside  his.  For  days,  sometimes  weeks,  thereafter, 
satiety  and  self-despite  would  hold  him  remorselessly, 
vitiating  all  his  outlook.  By  it,  also,  there  was 
awakened  a  desire  for  Rose  that  irked  his  very  man- 
hood. 

Rhythms  of  fury  came  on  him.  At  such  times  he 
would  forget  all  earlier  revulsions  and  attempt  to  dis- 
prove past  experiences — unless  it  so  happened,  as  it 
often  did,  that  the  tempting  siren's  mercenary  zeal 
drove  him  headlong  in  flight. 

Thus  satiety  seized  him,  and  a  great  void  that  he 
yearned  to  fill.  It  even  sapped  the  strength  from  his 
work,  though  it  was  only  when  he  plunged  into  this 
that  he  achieved  forgetfulness.     Battersby  had  at  one 


Conclusions  373 

time  suggested  a  return  home,  but  the  astonied  eyes 
and  the  great  scoff  that  had  greeted  this  proposal  had 
soon  disillusioned  that  worthy  friend  as  to  whether 
Harry  entertained  any  regrets  at  having  left  there. 
Having  failed,  however,  to  achieve  Harry  a  resting- 
place  in  this  way,  Battersby  made  another  attempt  by 
insisting  on  his  joining  him  at  his  flat,  asking  his  col- 
laboration in  a  lengthy  critique  he  projected  on  a  for- 
eign dramatist.  He  had  scarcely  expected  such  fury 
of  labour.  For  Harry  had  pushed  it  to  an  astonish- 
ingly rapid  conclusion;  and  had  vanished  again. 

It  was  Mr.  Richard  Webber-Colquhoun  who  had 
brought  the  chiefest  respite  to  Harry.  Barras  he  saw 
little  of,  but  Webber-Colquhoun  he  met  continually. 
He  had  dined  several  times  at  his  flat,  having,  on  one 
occasion,  met  there  a  beautiful  but  masterful  young 
lady  that  Webber-Colquhoun  had  introduced  as  his 
"friend"  carelessly  enough,  minding  little,  as  it  was 
obvious  the  lady  minded  little,  if  Harry  went  on  to 
deduce  a  yet  more  intimate  relation.  Moreover,  they 
had  met  elsewhere  also.  It  was  easy  for  Harry  to  see 
that  Webber-Colquhoun  liked  him,  and  that  he  was  a 
little  puzzled  at  his  own  preference.  This  was  the 
more  Interesting  to  Harry  as  it  had  been  somewhat 
the  same  with  himself.  He  liked  the  man,  if  only  for 
his  melancholy  uninterestedness  in  life :  but  there  was, 
moreover,  something  he  had  lately  thought  or  heard, 
or  both,  about  this  man  that  puzzled  him  each  time 
they  met.  When  Webber-Colquhoun  was  gone  the 
thought  was  gone ;  when  Webber-Colquhoun  was  pres- 
ent the  demands  of  conversation  Irritated  him  because 
they  forbade  him  pursuing  this  thing  to  its  finish,  this 
will-o'-the-wisp  to  Its  fenny  lair. 

Further,  there  were  the  shares.  It  amazed  Harry 
at  first  to  note  Webber-Colquhoun's  accurate  prog- 


374  Broken  Arcs 

noses  with  regard  to  these.  Once  only  had  he  been 
wrong,  and  then  he  had  seemed  extraordinarily  vexed: 
but  with  Barras,  not  with  the  caprice  of  market  vaga- 
ries. Several  times  had  Harry's  shares  changed  hands. 
Once  Webber-Colquhoun  had  advised  him  to  sell,  and 
to  send  him  word  when  the  transaction  was  complete. 
He  had  done  so;  when,  strangely  enough!  an  extraor- 
dinary declension  had  set  in.  Then,  after  a  while, 
there  had  come  a  line  from  Webber-Colquhoun  bid- 
ding him  buy.  He  had  done  so;  and  his  holding  had 
promptly  proceeded  very  nearly  to  duple  Its  value. 
He  had  questioned  his  adviser  with  regard  to  the 
strangeness  of  this;  and  had  learnt  in  reply  that  Bar- 
ras might  have  his  faults,  but  he  was  certainly  a  *'per- 
fect  genius."  He  had  had  his  attention  drawn  to  cer- 
tain columns  In  weekly  papers  that  discussed  finance 
subjects.  In  these  he  saw  innocent.  Innocuous  letters 
of  inquiry  which  seemed  to  amuse  Webber-Colquhoun 
vastly.  Harry  noticed  that  the  editor's  replies  to 
those  inquiries  seemed  in  most  cases  to  bear  out  In  a 
marked  manner  the  suggestions.  In  some  cases,  they 
contradicted  them  in  the  most  emphatic  manner;  and 
Harry  noticed  that  it  was  these  latter  that  seemed  to 
amuse  Webber-Colquhoun  most.  He  read  one  over, 
and  referred  to  Barras  as  a  *'damn*  sly  dog."  Other 
things  he  told  Harry,  too,  that  gave  Harry  to  know 
that  he  was  but  one  of  some  thirty  or  forty  others 
who  were  all  acting  always  in  concert  with  regard  to 
buying  and  selling,  and  that  Barras  was  Intelligence- 
in-Chief  to  all  these.  This  had  perplexed  and  dis- 
tressed Harry  considerably. 

Nor  had  his  distress  been  relieved  when  a  line  came 
from  Webber-Colquhoun  bidding  him  sell,  and  advis- 
ing him  under  no  circumstances  to  touch  them  again. 
He  had  recommended  another  company's  shares;  but 


Conclusions  375 

Harry,  having  sold,  had  kept  the  money  apart,  deter- 
mining not  to  touch  it  awhile,  not,  at  least,  till  his 
doubts  had  been  set  at  rest.  This  desired  quiescence 
of  a  supersensitive  conscience  had  not  been  aided  by 
the  fact  that  since  his  sale  a  renewed  active  declension 
of  the  market  had  come  about  in  those  shares. 

This  adventitious  excitement  had  proceeded  with 
the  unrest  of  his  own  deep  soul;  yet  it  had  tended  to 
allay  it  somewhat,  being  in  truth  a  counter-irritant. 
But  as  the  Spring  had  come  and  gone,  his  craving  for 
Rose  had  become  intense  beyond  all  power  to  bear  it. 
It  had  made  him  leave  his  work  often,  to  pace  his 
room  to  and  fro  crying  aloud  for  her  in  a  wail  of  hope- 
lessness. 

Summer  had  intensified  his  passion.  The  voice  of 
sirens  won  him  no  longer;  he  stood  above  them;  they 
spelt  disillusionment  for  him,  and  thereby  had  intensi- 
fied the  aching  void  his  emotions  gnawed  at.  He 
avoided  the  river  fearfully.  Once  it  had  tempted  him 
down  to  one  of  its  deserted  quays.  Its  darkness  had 
made  him  shudder.  A  voice  had  hailed  him,  and  he 
had  fled  it,  to  fear  it  in  his  thought  and  avoid  it  in  his 
ways. 

He  knew  not  how  this  grief  would  end.  It  was  too 
steadfastly  poignant  to  continue.  It  harried  him  by 
night  as  by  day.  Perhaps  it  was  thus,  by  the  very 
self-evasion  of  hope,  that  the  conviction  had  grown  on 
him  that  he  would  see  Rose  soon — somewhere,  some- 
how. He  had  grown  to  scanning  the  faces  of  people 
in  the  highways,  causing  considerable  discomfort 
thereby.  But  no  Rose  had  he  seen.  Nevertheless  the 
conviction  had  grown  in  him  and  had  buoyed  him. 

The  previous  morning  he  had  seen  in  his  paper  a 
notification  of  the  liquidation  of  the  Candida  Oil  De- 
velopment Company,  and  he  had  written  forthwith  to 


37^  Broken  Arcs 

Webber-Colquhoun  asking  to  meet  him  to-day,  Intend- 
ing fierce  discussion  and  uncomfortable  questioning. 


Ill 

Jim  held  a  tight  grasp  of  Harry's  hand  as  they 
turned  down  a  street  whose  slight  length  was  well 
matched  by  its  vaporous  name. 

*'I  may  call  you  father,  mayn't  I?"  he  asked. 

"Certainly!"  said  Harry,  startled  to  hear  the 
familiar  subject. 

**I  mean,  you  are  my  father,  aren't  you?" 

"Of  course!" 

There  was  something  unsatisfactory  about  this  last 
reply  that  caused  Jim  to  look  up.  He  ceased  his  ques- 
tions. 

"Well,  where  are  you  living  now,  laddie?"  Harry 
took  up  the  part  of  interlocutor,  attempting  to  assume 
naturalness  of  manner. 

Jim's  eyes  opened  with  wide  wonder.  This  seemed 
to  make  the  whole  situation  complex. 

"Streatham,"  he  said. 

This  man  that  seemed  not  altogether  so  certain  as 
he  might  have  been  with  regard  to  his  parental  posi- 
tion, looked  on  him  with  a  ray  of  delight  as  he  said 
this.  The  fact  pleased  him;  also  puzzled  him,  striking 
a  strange  sense  of  bad  ethic  somewhere. 

"Do  you  remember  the  address?" 

"No,  I  don't,  father." 

Disappointment  loomed  down  on  him  from  above 
and  awoke  his  sensitive  sympathy. 

"But  I  could  find  it  from  the  station,"  he  continued, 
and  was  glad  to  note  sunshine  sweep  the  physiognom- 
ical clouds  away. 


Conclusions  377 

They  had  turned  into  the  street  where  an  ancient 
dandiocracy  purchased  its  neckwear;  and  entered  a 
resplendent  dining  resort.  At  the  appointed  table 
Harry  saw  Webber-Colquhoun,  who,  when  he  caught 
sight  of  Harry,  raised  his  brows  in  surprise  to  see  him 
accompanied  thus.  A  quick  pang  shot  through  Harry 
as  he  made  his  way  thither.  All  the  discomfort  he 
had  experienced  during  these  past  months  rose  to  new 
power.  It  was  now  like  a  thundercloud  which  awes 
and  perplexes  the  imagination,  and  from  out  the  midst 
of  which  quivering  lightnings  flash  in  half-illumination 
of  an  unknown  object.  Webber-Colquhoun's  face,  in- 
deed, seemed  familiar  now  in  a  new  sense. 

"Who's  your  charge?"  the  question  hailed  him  as 
an  obsequious  waiter  produced  a  chair  for  the 
"charge." 

Harry  avoided  the  question,  saying — 

"YouVe  early,  aren't  you?  Or  is  it  I  who  am 
late?" 

"A  little  of  each,  I  think.  I  waited  lunch  for 
you.  Is  the  youngster  going  to  fire  through  the 
courses?" 

"What  do  you  say,  Jim?"  Harry  asked,  putting  his 
arm  over  Jim's  shoulder  and  looking  down  at  him. 
Jim's  face,  too,  seemed  now  strangely  familiar !  Was 
his  brain  acting  normally?  What  was  this  extraordi- 
nary prestidigitation  of  unrealities?  What  this  vague 
sense  of  the  vast  and  intangible?  Had  his  sudden  joy 
overwhelmed  temporarily  his  sense  of  accustomed 
facts  ? 

"What,  father?"  The  question  was  put  in  obvious 
elucidation  of  his  query.  Webber-Colquhoun  started 
up  in  obvious  amazement  at  the  epithet. 

Harry  started  out  of  a  dream  of  thought,  bringing 
his  vague  unrest  with  him,  to  answer  him. 


37^  Broken  Arcs 

**What  would  you  like  for  lunch?  Anything  in  par- 
ticular, or  a  little  of  all  sorts?" 

**What  are  you  going  to  have,  father?" 

The  epithet  now  confused  Harry. 

**A  little  of  all  sorts,  I  think,"  he  said,  with  a 
marked  desire  not  to  look  over  at  Webber-Colquhoun. 

"Then  I  will." 

"Two,  table  d*h6teF*  said  Harry.  He  knew  Web- 
ber-Colquhoun was  regarding  him,  and  was  not  sur- 
prised when  the  question  greeted  him. 

"/«  loco  parentis^* 

"Yes,  for  the  day."  Harry  looked  at  Webber- 
Colquhoun  as  he  spoke,  and  the  riddle  seemed  some- 
how clearer. 

"Youth  takes  uncommon  zest  in  the  epithet  for  a 
rare  occurrence  anyhow." 

Harry  flushed,  and  looked  suspiciously  at  the 
speaker. 

"Further,  it's  a  prospective  honour  for  me,"  he  said. 
"My  fiancee^s  son,  in  other  words,"  he  added  defi- 
antly. 

A  sudden  and  alert  Jim  looked  for  a  moment  out 
of  Webber-Colquhoun's  face,  startling  Harry.  A 
vast  sense  of  horror  struck  on  him. 

"I  didn't  think  you  were  that  sort.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  congratulate  you,  if  I  didn't  happen  to  think 
married  life  was  extinction.  May  I  inquire  the  happy 
lady's  name?" 

"Miss — eh — Mackenzie,"  said  Harry  hastily.  He 
knew  Jim  was  wondering  at  him. 

"Oh!"  said  Webber-Colquhoun  with  his  eyes  on 
Jim.     He  plucked  an  olive  with  too  obvious  courtesy. 

Harry  blushed  scarlet  at  his  blunder. 

"She  holds  the  same  opinion  as  I  do,  contending 
that  a  widow  should  revert  to  her  maiden  name  so  as 


Conclusions  379 

not  to  burden  a  defunct  husband's  family  with  a  rela- 
tionship that  no  longer  Interests  them,"  he  said,  with 
the  dark  consciousness  that  his  excuse  smacked  too 
much  of  a  ready  coinage. 

"Oh!"  said  the  other,  placing  a  bared  olive-stone 
at  the  side  of  his  plate.     He  waited  till  the  mellow 
waves  of  the  monosyllable  had  faded  from  the  air,  and 
then  added,  ''Country's  beginning  to  get  a  bit  over- 
done now.     Have  you  been  for  a  holiday  yet?" 
**No.     You're  just  back,  aren't  you?" 
"Yes.     Do  you  propose  going  down?" 
"I  may.     Looking  overdone,  you  say?" 
"Frightfully.     You  should  go.     A  man  wants  the 
country  at  least  once  a  year." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  he  doesn't  want  it  always.  You've 
got  property  In  Suffolk,  haven't  you?"  Harry  ventured 
this.  He  did  not  know;  but  it  followed  up  his 
thoughts. 

"Yes.     You  must  come  down  some  day." 
"Are  you  near  anywhere  in  particular?" 
"Quite  close  to  Ipstowe,  as  a  point  of  fact." 
Harry  looked  down   at  Jim,   and  then  darkly  at 
Webber-Colquhoun.     HI^   thoughts   were    fierce    and 
bitter.     He  let  the  other's  next  question  go  by  unan- 
swered, knowing  that  he  repeated  it  and  awaited  a 
reply. 

A  long  period  of  silence  succeeded  to  this.  Each  of 
the  trio  went  forward  with  his  meal,  each  thinking  his 
own  thoughts,  each  unhappy  in  the  thinking  of  them. 
Every  now  and  then  Jim  stole  a  glance  at  Harry.  So 
also  did  Webber-Colquhoun,  varying  it  with  puzzled 
looks  at  Jim.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  boy  seemed 
equally  puzzled  at  him;  certainly  he  awoke  a  strain  of 
emotion  that,  being  uncomfortable,  he  ruthlessly  put 
from  him. 


380  Broken  Arcs 

"I  understand  you  wished  to  speak  to  me  about 
something  particular,  Denzll,"  he  said  at  length. 

"Yes/*  said  Harry.  "I  noticed  yesterday  that  the 
Candida  was  being  wound  up." 

"Yes,"  said  Webber-Colquhoun,  and  laughed  a  lit- 
tle awkwardly. 

"What  was  the  matter  with  It?'* 

"Experts  a  bit  mistaken  in  their  calculation." 

"What  are  the  assets?" 

"Oh,  machinery,  the  grant  of  land,  etc.  I  don't 
fancy  they're  much  anyhow,"  he  added  with  an  excess 
of  frankness. 

"How  do  you  come  off  in  this?"  asked  Harry  with 
hard  suspicion. 

"I?  Good  God  I  I  cleared  out  at  top,  same  as 
you  did,  Denzll." 

Harry  disregarded  the  blow,  and  continued — 

"But  was  there  any  oil  there?" 

"I  understand  there  was  a  little — dispersed  through 
the  soil,  and  not  worth  working.  But  what's  this  in- 
terrogatory about,  Denzll?  What  are  you  driving 
at?" 

"Any  awkward  questions  asked  yet?"  continued 
Harry,  paying  no  heed  to  this  outburst. 

"Good  Heavens,  no  I  The  men  in  the  City  are  too 
good  sportsmen  for  that  kind  of  thing.  They  take 
their  losses  with  their  gains." 

"I  suppose  one's  as  likely  to  be  a  swindle  as  the 
other." 

Webber-Colquhoun  flushed  angrily. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said. 

"I'm  thinking  of  the  poor  devils  outside  the  City, 
who,  I  suppose,  usually  come  in  at  the  end  and  pay  the 
piper." 

Webber-Colquhoun  lost  his  temper. 


Conclusions  3^^ 

"Damn  it,  Denzil!"  he  said;  "if  you  want  to  play 
the  Puritan  let  me  tell  you  that  I  think  you're  a  very 
poor  person  to  do  it,  seeing  you  cleared  a  fair  sweep 
yourself,  and  that  without  any  risk  whatsoever." 

The  blow  struck  home.     Harry  rose. 

"I  helped  it,  too,  didn't  I?"  he  said. 

"Gad,  so  you  did!" 

"I'll  talk  further  about  this  with  you,  I  think,"  said 
Harry. 

"I'm  in  all  days  up  to  eleven,"  said  the  other 
frigidly. 

"Two  on  one  bill,"  said  Harry  to  the  waiter  that 
bustled  to  learn  what  had  interrupted  the  repast. 

"I'm  paying  for  this,"  called  Webber-Colquhoun  in 
expostulation. 

"Thanks,  I  wish  no  favours  from  a  vampire,  di- 
rectly I  know  him.  Besides,  when  I  come  to  see  you 
I  fancy  I'll  have  another  subject  to  talk  to  you  about. 
Good-day!" 

Webber-Colquhoun  looked  after  the  retreating 
Harry.  He,  too,  felt  no  further  desire  to  continue 
temporizing  with  viands,  blaming  the  over-sultry  room 
for  his  nausea.  He  swept  a  clear  space  before  him. 
"I  thought  he'd  turn  at  the  end,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"he  is  just  that  sort.  And,  mind  you,  I  don't  like  it 
myself;  I  must  admit  that.  Still,  others  do  it.  I'll 
go  down  and  see  Barras." 

Harry  led  Jim  through  the  parks,  and  thus  on  to 
Chelsea.  He  wished  to  cool  his  brain  from  its  confu- 
sion. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  Jim  had  asked  him  regarding 
Webber-Colquhoun,  and  a  sudden  nausea  made  it  dif- 
ficult for  him  to  reply. 

"A  man  I'm  sorry  I  ever  met,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Was  that  why  you  were  so  angry  with  him?" 


382  Broken  Arcs 

"Yes.'' 

**rm  so  sorry,  father,"  had  come  the  soft  reply,  in 
accompaniment  of  which  an  affectionate  hand  crept 
into  Harry's. 

Once  back  again  at  Chelsea  the  disparate  fragments 
of  perplexity  seem  to  fall  more  Into  an  orderly  scheme. 
With  a  steady  indolence  he  produced  the  large  por- 
trait of  Rose  that  he  kept  hidden  in  a  ready  drawer, 
and  displayed  it  on  his  table.  However  subtly  he 
sought  to  do  so,  he  was  nevertheless  not  quick  enough 
for  Jim. 

"Mother's  got  one  like  that  of  you,"  said  he. 

Harry  knew  that  well,  for  were  the  two  not  gift- 
fellows?  But  in  what  regard  did  she  hold  It?  His 
blood  had  fluttered  through  his  veins  with  swifter  mo- 
tion at  the  innocent  remark,  and  as  he  put  his  question 
it  gave  a  tremulous  wave  to  his  voice. 

"Oh!     Where  does  she  keep  It?" 

"In  a  drawer  like  you  do  yours.  But  she  takes  it 
out  to  look  at  It  sometimes.  She  doesn't  like  me  to 
talk  about  you." 

Harry  was  silent.  He  turned  his  face  away  from 
the  boy.  Jim,  however,  had  risen  to  unusual  heights 
of  loquacity,  and  ventured  information  on  a  variety  of 
themes  well-pleasing  to  his  companion.  At  length  he 
said,  as  with  the  air  of  one  making  a  discovery  of 
peculiar  zest  and  relish — 

"Won't  mother  be  surprised  to  find  me  gone  like 
this?" 

Harry  turned  about  amazedly.  For  the  first  time 
the  thought  of  Rose's  distress  struck  him.  It  brought 
large  pity  to  his  mind.  Yet  surely  it  was  well  he  had 
done  this:  if  only  for  subsequent  felicity  I  Neverthe- 
less, it  would  cause  him  to  be  called  upon  to  make  ex- 
planation of  his  abduction  of  her  boy.     He  began  to 


Conclusions  383 

fear  the  picture  this  raised.  He  could  only  avoid 
blame,  winning  his  way  to  the  thanks  that  would  ex- 
tend the  sprig  of  olive  to  him  if  all  else  failed,  by 
assuming  the  position  of  Jim's  discoverer,  which  would 
need  sinking  mention  of  his  sight  of  her  pale-vestured 
glory  over'his  gloom  of  thought.  Yet,  whatever  else 
was  doubtful,  it  was  certain  that  he  must  speed  to 
Streatham  with  his  prize  as  soon  as  possible. 

Thus  the  torrid  August  day  was  fading  to  a  close 
when  Harry  arrived  with  his  charge  at  Streatham  sta- 
tion. The  sky  was  cloudless,  and  a  solar  luminary, 
that  increased  in  girth  the  lower  he  sank  to  eclipse, 
threw  its  parting  rays  into  a  blue-opal  dome  of  clear 
sky.  The  horizon  around  and  about  was  dusky,  not 
with  cloud,  but  with  vaporous  exhalation.  A  quiet 
coolness  was  beginning  to  creep  Into  the  air,  and  per- 
spiring mortality  was  airing  itself.  As  he  looked  up 
the  High  Street  it  seemed  like  a  floating  river  of  shim- 
mering whiteness,  in  which  wavelets  of  pale  colour 
sparkled.  Mortality  in  soberer  and  less  wise  raiment 
emerged  behind  him  from  the  station,  flushed  of  cheek, 
and  evidently  irked  as  to  temper.  He  gave  over 
leadership  now  to  his  young  charge. 

He  was  led  through  a  maze  of  streets  with  unerring 
direction,  being  finally  brought  before  a  picturesque 
unit  of  a  vast  villadom.  A  fear  such  as  he  had  never 
known  entered  him  as  he  was  led  up  to  the  door  to 
beat  on  it  his  signal  of  attention.  He  feared  to  see 
Alice,  and  was  relieved  to  note  a  younger  servitor  In 
her  place,  who  greeted  their  arrival  with  a  round  ex- 
clamation. 

He  heard  her  announce  their  arrival  with  eager 
excitement,  as  he  stood  In  the  darkened  hall,  having 
fast  hold  of  Jim's  hand. 

"There's  a  gentleman  come  with  Master  Jim." 


384  Broken  Arcs 

"Oh I**  cried  a  voice  within  that  thrilled  him;  and 
a  flutter  of  skirts  brought  Rose  Into  the  hall. 

She  did  not  heed  him  as  he  stood  with  the  light 
behind  him.     She  sprang  to  her  child. 

*'Oh,  Jim  I"  she  cried  In  a  relief  of  joy,  catching  him 
to  her  lips  and  arresting  his  greeting. 

Harry's  heart  beat  wildly  as  he  surveyed  her.  He 
uttered  the  one  word — 

"Rose!'' 

She  dropped  her  child  and  gazed  at  him. 

He  spoke  her  name  again. 

"Harry!  Oh,  Harry!"  Her  breast  breathed  In 
great  gasps.     She  put  out  her  hands  for  support. 

He  did  not  move  to  her.     He  felt  he  dared  not. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  come?"  she  said. 

"I  brought  Jim." 

The  shock  of  pain  and  growth  was  on  her,  and  he 
waited  for  It  to  pass  awhile. 

"Why  did  you  come?"  she  said  again. 

"I  came  for  you,  Rose,  I  can't  do  without  you,  even 
though  I  might  wish  to,  which  I  don't."  He,  too, 
could  scarcely  think  clearly,  and  spoke  stumbllngly: 
"Rose,  don't  you  want  me,  too?" 

Sobs  quivered  and  shuddered  In  her.  He  took  her 
unresistingly  Into  his  arms  to  soothe  her.  She,  he 
felt,  was  not  able  yet  to  bear  affection,  so  he  gave  only 
comfort,  restraining  all  warmth  of  caress. 

"Oh,  Harry,"  she  murmured,  extricating  herself. 

He  let  her  free.     He  would  not  resist  her. 

"Come  In  here,  and  let's  talk,"  he  said,  and  guided 
her  Into  a  room  that  was  strange  to  him. 

Jim  watched  them  with  mute  Interest;  and  when  the 
door  closed  behind  them  he  went  upstairs  with  stream- 
ing eyes. 


Conclusions  385 


IV 


Their  departure  from  Winmouth  had  been  acceler- 
ated by  the  fact  that  nothing  would  tempt  Rose  from 
the  house  while  there.  Mr.  Bradley  had  made  no 
further  inquiries  as  to  the  reason  of  her  manifest  dis- 
tress, but  this  repugnance  to  sallying  out  was  a  clue 
that  gave  him  to  know  something  not  far  from  the 
truth.     In  pity  for  her  he  moved  forthwith. 

He  had  endeavoured  to  extract  confidence  from  her 
with  regard  to  Harry,  but  here,  too,  failure  greeted 
him.  He  saw  that  she  was  attempting,  at  whatever 
cost  might  be,  to  break  all  memory  of  the  past.  It 
brought  pain,  and  she  feared  it.  So  he  had  not  urged 
her,  thinking  to  let  Time  bring  its  own  healing.  He 
hoped  the  health  it  would  bring  would  not  be  that  of 
forgetfulness,  but  knew  not  how  to  avoid  such  a 
result. 

Yet  in  seeing  this  he  saw  but  a  half-truth.  Strange 
as  it  may  seem  to  the  little  versed  in  human  intricacies, 
far  from  forgetting  Harry  she  had  been  nursing  the 
tenderest  memory  of  him.  He  of  the  flesh  and  blood, 
he  of  the  headlong  failure,  was  banished  from  her 
thought.  But  she  had  clung  to  the  Harry  that  had 
shone  with  such  true  refulgence  in  the  wonder  of  lov- 
ing imagination.  It  was  this  Harry  that  the  paste- 
board likenesses,  that  she  nursed  in  a  treasured 
drawer,  connoted.  It  was  this  Harry  that  had  given 
her  the  brooch  she  wore  so  faithfully  and  so  continu- 
ously; not  the  structure  of  nerves  and  muscle  that 
lived  in  far  Chelsea.  She  wished  she  had  kept  the 
ring  of  warm  rubies:  the  cleavage  would  have  been 
sharper,    and    thus    the    memory   would    have    been 


386  Broken  Arcs 

sweeter.  It  was  a  soUure  to  her  ideal  to  think  that  its 
fleshy  counterpart  owned  this  link  between  them. 

She  had,  at  first,  sought  his  contributions  to  an 
ephemeral  literature.  But  these  had  contained  strains 
of  bitterness,  almost  of  cynicism,  that  her  ideal  never 
would  have  pursued.  So  she  ceased  this  journalistic 
zeal,  since  it  was  only  contributory  to  mental,  to  say 
nothing  of  emotional,  confusion. 

After  a  short  unhappy  experience  as  nomads  they 
had  sought  refuge  at  Streatham.  Since  the  years 
were  now  heavy  with  Alice,  they  had  been  constrained 
to  procure  her  a  younger  auxiliary,  and  this  had  had 
its  corresponding  effect  on  their  prestige  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. They  were  ranked  among  the  bi-domes- 
tics,  and  were  esteemed  accordingly.  Alice  and  her 
auxiliary  had  actually  been  seen  on  the  front  steps  to- 
gether one  day,  and  the  result  had  been  a  prompt  in- 
flux of  visitors.  These  had  evidently  been  the  bolder- 
hearted,  the  pioneers  who  snapped  adventurous  fingers 
at  convention.  These  sturdy  souls  had  borne  the  tid- 
ings to  the  more  timorous  that  whoever  Mr.  Bradley 
was,  or  whencesoever  he  came,  he  certainly  had 
''means" :  conjugated  in  the  comparative  as  comfort- 
able means,  and  in  the  superlative  as  private  means. 
The  simple  positive  relieved  him  of  any  doubt  of 
criminality  or  moral  undesirability;  the  comparative 
made  him  estimable  as  a  social  acquisition;  the  super- 
lative put  him  among  the  gentry,  and  made  him  even 
a  mark  for  ambition  to  strive  after. 

Visitors  accordingly  began  to  call  on  them.  They 
were  acknowledged  as  worthy.  Moreover,  as  the 
spring  came  on,  Mr.  Bradley,  in  his  advancing  years, 
was  stricken  with  the  prevailing  scourge  of  gardening. 
This  brought  more  visitors,  and  Rose  was  thus  caught 
up  in  a  vortex  of  friends,  some  of  whom  she  despised, 


Conclusions  3^7 

but  some  whom  she  esteemed.  Most  of  them,  it  must 
be  confessed,  returned  her  dislike  with  dislike,  findmg 
her  emphasis  of  thought  and  impatience  of  mood,  to 
say  nothing  ofttimes  of  her  brooding  melancholy,  dis- 
tasteful and  disquieting.  They  showed  this  not  m 
manner  but  in  matter.  They  smiled,  or  bowed,  as 
graciously  as  aforetime;  but  when  she  was  gone 
their  tongues  made  exquisite  sword-play  with  her 
fame. 

But  that  she  should  have  sifted  a  few  among  them 
to  exchange  a  more  equal  regard  with,  had  been  a 
gain.  She  had  thrown  herself  with  more  zest  into 
such  friendships  owing  to  the  very  tenderness  of  her 
inward  wound.  At  worst  they  were  a  counter-irritant; 
at  best  an  emollient. 

Moreover,  they  lubricated  the  passing  of  the  days, 
and  thus  helped  her  further  towards  that  time  when 
the  intangible  would  be  a  reality  indeed,  and  the  Harry 
of  flesh  and  blood  a  myth  of  the  past. 

It  was  in  such  a  mood  she  had  been  drawn  to  the 
great  feminine  festival.  Mr.  Bradley,  with  a  sympa- 
thy rare  with  the  unintelligent  male,  had  furnished  her 
with  the  wherewithal  to  engage  in  a  goodly  number  of 
rites.  Jim  had  clung  to  her  in  the  throng,  mystified 
and  perplexed  at  the  extraordinary  multitudes.  Now 
and  then  a  stray  anxiety  concerning  him  had  distracted 
her  from  the  festival;  but  finding  that  he  clung  closely 
to  her,  this  anxiety  faded  with  the  passing  of  time. 
She  leant  on  his  obvious  recognition  as  to  where  his 
safety  lay  in  the  throng  of  worshippers. 

In  truth,  it  was  not  until  she  had  arrived  beneath 
the  nimble  archer  that  wings  his  shafts  aloft  London's 
most  decorative  Circus  that  she  became  aware  of  her 
loss. 

"I  thought  he  was  keeping  to  us  so  well,"  she  made 


388  Broken  Arcs 

her  tearful  protest,  defending  herself  thus,  too,  from 
neglect. 

"So  he  was,  all  the  time,"  responded  her  comrade. 

An  appeal  to  the  constabulary  evoked  the  sympathy 
of  notebooks  and  Interrogatories.  She  endeavoured 
to  sweep  such  functionary  zeal  aside  so  as  to  procure 
a  readier  assistance.  But  officialdom  knew  but  one 
dehumanized  way  to  go,  and,  though  it  reduced  her 
to  a  torrent  of  tears,  yet  she  had  to  tread  that  way 
with  It.  By  the  time  the  interrogatory  was  complete, 
and  the  notebook  was  put  away,  Harry  and  his  charge 
had  already  sighted  Webber-Colquhoun.  Then  the 
blue-coated  limb  of  the  law  had  suggested  a  perambu- 
lation back  along  the  way  they  had  come,  lest  the  tru- 
ant be  found  in  tears  awaiting  his  guardians.  This 
failed  of  discovery;  and  the  only  thing  officialdom 
could  suggest  was  a  return  home,  and  patience. 

'*Of  course,"  he  added  reassuringly,  "if  there's  been 
an  accident  we  should  hear  at  once." 

It  must  be  set  as  an  everlasting  testimony  to  femi- 
nine obtuseness  that  this  raised  an  agony  of  apprehen- 
sion in  Rose's  mind. 

However  much  wisdom  recommended  a  return 
home  for  a  display  of  exemplary  patience,  it  was 
scarcely  to  be  Imagined  that  maternal  anxiety  could 
fall  readily  in  with  so  trite  a  suggestion.  Neverthe- 
less, it  had  finally  to  be  adopted  for  very  weariness. 

Mr.  Bradley  had  sought  to  comfort  Rose,  being 
tempted  only  to  one  delicate  censure  of  feminine  ex- 
citement. Indeed,  he  had  been  actually  suggesting 
innumerable  methods  by  which  Jim  could  have 
achieved  safety,  when  his  arrival  had  been  announced. 
He  was  about  to  follow  Rose  out  into  the  hall,  when 
a  strangely  familiar  voice  struck  on  his  ear.  Hearing 
it,  he  had  stopped.     Then  he  had  gone  out  by  the  open 


Conclusions  3^9. 

French  window  to  the  scent  of  jasmine  and  the  dusky 
advent  of  twilight.  In  his  face  was  the  light  of  glad- 
ness, for  to  him,  too,  the  months  had  brought  wisdom. 


"ArenV  you  glad  I  have  come?" 

"I  am,  and  Fm  not." 

Harry  sat  opposite  Rose  as  he  asked  his  question, 
and  he  made  no  attempt  to  touch  her.  He  wisely  let 
his  presence  work  its  own  effect. 

"Rose,  I  have  come  as  a  supplicatory:  don't — for 
the  sake  of  your  sex,  If  not  for  mine — don't  be  hard, 
don't  be  merciless,  though,  dear,  I  think  your  sex  is 
naturally  harder  than  ours." 

"I  don't  want  to  be  hard,  Harry;  but  you  don't 
know  how  I  have  suffered." 

*Tou  know  how  I  regret  that."  He,  too,  had  suf- 
fered; yet  he  let  it  pass,  for  the  obvious  retort  was 
that  he  was  responsible  for  that. 

They  spoke  little,  and  their  speech  was  tense  and 
tragic.  He  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  face,  but  her 
eyes  looked  away  across  the  room.  He  evidently  was 
struggling  with  her;  she  was  struggling  with  the  ten- 
derer self  that  had  sprung  up  pleading  in  her.  Its 
coming  meant  the  coming  of  pain,  and  she  shrank 
from  It. 

"Rose,"  he  said,  "why  do  you  look  like  that?' 

"I  don't  know.     I  don't  know  what  to  think." 

He  gazed  earnestly,  anxiously,  on  her.  What 
strange  combat  was  going  on  behind  those  far-fixed 
eyes  he  could  but  dimly  realize.  He  saw  their  lids 
flutter  and  their  lashes  moisten.  When  he  saw  that, 
great  hope  and  great  pity  stirred  in  him. 


39^  Broken  Arcs 

"Rose!"  he  said. 

Slowly  the  raindrops  of  her  mind  fell  on  her  cheeks. 
Her  resistance  grew  weaker  and  her  tenderer  self 
had  awakened.  Her  face  bowed  on  her  arms  and 
her  tears  flowed  freely.  Instantly  he  was  by  her 
side. 

"Dear,  you  have  shown  me  what  I  wanted  to 
know,"  said  he  presently,  and  there  was,  perhaps, 
more  than  a  little  of  the  victor's  triumph  In  his  voice. 
"We  must  never  be  separated  again  after  this." 

She  suffered  him  to  take  her  In  his  arms  now,  and  to 
caress  her.  He  soothed  her  as  he  might  a  child,  and 
she  felt  victory  sweeping  over  her  soul.  She  quenched 
her  tears,  and  freed  herself  from  him.  There  was 
hardness  In  her  voice  as  she  said— 

"What  have  you  done  about  that  woman?" 

The  question  struck  him  as  with  a  corporeal  blow. 
The  lyric  of  anguish  rang  In  his  voice  as  he  replied: 

"I've  never  seen  her  since  that — that  night." 

Obvious  incredulity  greeted  this  reply.  The  soft 
modelling  of  her  chin  grew  hard  and  strained. 

"I  could  forgive  it  if  I  knew  all — all.  It's  just  this 
terrible  uncertainty  I  can't  bear."  Her  manner  was 
almost  fierce. 

"My  dear,  you  do.  Don't  let  your  imagination 
torture  you  with  fanciful  evils." 

Her  manner  expressed  convinced  doubt.  It  raised 
a  tempest  in  his  thought  to  find  his  plain  speech  dis- 
credited.    He  flew  to  emphasis. 

"Don't  you  believe  me?  I  neither  know  where  she 
is,  nor  anything  about  her.  What  I  know,  you  know; 
and  I  protest  my  main  interest,  apart  from  my  stum- 
ble, sprang  from  all  that  was  best  in  me.  I  believe 
she  knew  It,  and  played  on  it;  but  there  it  Is!  The 
man  that  went  through  that  Is  the  better  man  now; 


Conclusions  39^ 

and  you  ask  the  younger  and  worse  because  more  im- 
mature man !     I  can*t  understand  you,  dear." 

"You  were  my  Ideal  of  all  that  was  best  and 
purest." 

He    stumbled    on   the    irrefragable    rock   between 

them. 

"Isn't  there  a  value  for  the  wisdom  of  growth  and 
experience?"  he  asked. 

"Not  for  me !"  she  said.  Feeling  a  sense  of  truth 
in  what  he  said,  however  alien  to  her,  she  went  on  to 
add,  "I  loved  you,  I  think,  because  I  trusted  and  ad- 
mired you;  I  looked  up  to  you." 

"Are  we  all  to  stand  still  at  puberty,  then?"  He 
whelmed  her  with  his  force  and  passion  of  speech. 
"What's  the  meaning  of  life.  Rose,  if  a  man  is  not  to 
enrich  himself  by  experience?  I  didn't  seek  it,  God 
knows;  I  tried  to  flee  it.  It  found  me  out,  though, 
and  I  protest  I  wouldn't  have  it  otherwise  for  what  it 
has  taught  me." 

She  looked  on  him  strangely  for  this  speech. 

"I  can't  understand  you,  Harry,"  she  said.  Her 
love  was  for  the  fragrant  greens,  and  she  could  not 
understand  the  royal  purples  of  the  earth. 

"What  I  mean  is  this,  I'm  the  better  husband  for 
you  now  than  ever  I  was,  because  my  feet  are  firm  on 
experience!  Experience  of  myself,  experience  of 
others,  experience  of  the  world.  Surely  that's  the 
only  meaning  of  this  earth !" 

"Then  you  might  go  on  getting  this  experience,  and 
what  am  I  to  do?"  She  spoke  with  a  tone  void  of 
emotion. 

His  mind  admitted  the  logic,  but  denied  its  truth. 
He  drooped  his  eyes  and  was  silent.  Then  she  struck 
into  the  language  of  bitter  jealousy;  scourged  herself 
with  improbable  happenings;  brought  herself  almost 


392  Broken  Arcs 

to  a  revulsion  of  him.  He  took  the  language  of  pained 
protest. 

Strange  world  1  Its  inhabitants  extol  happiness  as 
the  most  blessed  of  human  states,  and  spend  their  days 
and  endeavours  raising  impassable  barriers  between 
themselves  and  it.  She  was  ineffably  dear  to  him; 
he  was  vital  to  her  thought;  if  she  had  him  not  in  the 
flesh  she  created  him  in  the  spirit;  yet  they  fought 
ghosts  of  the  past,  they  raised  improbable  ghosts  of 
the  future,  and  waged  a  very  anguish  of  battle  over 
them.  She  haled  them  forth;  he  cried  out  on  them 
as  fiction;  and  their  souls  cried  dumbly  for  peace  and 
joy.  It  was  Harry  she  wanted,  not  Rose;  it  was  Rose 
he  wanted,  not  Harry — truly  so,  despite  the  contrary 
seeming:  and  yet  each  cried  out  on  the  other  because 
their  sight  was  not  the  same! 

Yet  they  had  to  work  out  their  own  salvation;  and 
they  talked  themselves  to  a  strained  silence.  His 
thought  was  nervous  and  frayed,  but  the  silence  cooled 
him.  He  rose  on  his  feet,  and,  taking  her  by  her 
hands,  drew  her  up  opposite  him.  Smoothing  the 
hair  back  from  her  brow,  he  said — 

"Rose,  we  love  each  other.  That  requires  no  prov- 
ing. Whatever  Love  is,  we  have  it.  We  need  each 
other,  don*t  we?  Well;  now  we  want  faith  in  each 
other,  faith  in  the  other's  divisible  self.  Probably 
that  may  not  come  easily,  but  it  will  be  the  better 
when  it  does  come  if  we  acquire  it  slowly.  But  the 
sooner  we  are  together  and  united  the  sooner  it  will 
come.     Therefore  we  ought  never  to  part  again.*' 

She  made  no  reply. 

*Tou  wouldn't  like  me  to  go  again  for  ever,  would 
you?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  with  sudden  fear  at  him.  He  saw  it, 
and  was  glad.     She  knew  he  saw  it.     He  stooped  and 


Conclusions  393 

she  raised  her  lips  to  his.  He  knew  it  for  a  pledge  of 
their  reconciliation,  though  she  did  not  know  it  so  as 
yet. 

"Can  I  stay  here  to-night,  do  you  think?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,  no !"     She  shrank  from  the  thought. 

"But  why  not?"  he  asked,  pained,  disappointed. 

"Let  me  have  it  my  way,"  she  urged.  "Don't 
press  it." 

"I  should  like  to  speak  to  Mr.  Bradley,"  he  said. 

"No,  dear,  don't!  Let  me  decide,  please,  Harry  I 
Go  now,  will  you,  and  come  back  to-morrow?" 

"But  why  this — this  strangeness,  this  aloofness?" 
he  asked,  with  rising  annoyance  in  his  voice.  As  he 
spoke  he  remembered  his  own  resolve  to  patience  and 
self-restraint,  wishing  he  could  withdraw  his  words. 

"Oh,  dear!"     Distress  sighed  in  her  note. 

"Very  well.  Til  go,  dear  heart,"  he  said,  at- 
tempting to  speak  with  cheer.     "I'll  be  back  to-mor- 


row." 


"I  only  want  to  settle  down  to  it,"  she  said,  looking 
up  at  him. 

He  caught  her  to  him,  and  she  clung  eagerly  to  him 
in  a  responsive  embrace. 

When  he  had  gone  she  sought  out  Mr.  Bradley. 
She  could  not  see  him,  but  could  hear  the  steady 
crunch  of  his  footsteps  in  the  far  distance  of  a  night- 
curtained  garden.  He  heard  her,  too,  and  came  to 
greet  her  down  the  path. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  anticipating  her.     "Is  he  here?" 

"No;  he's  coming  back  to-morrow." 

"You  should  have  kept  him  here,"  he  rebuked  her. 

"I  couldn't,"  she  said,  and  shivered. 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders  and  drew  her 
up  the  walk. 

"Rose,"  said  he,  "you're  a  bundle  of  quick  sensa- 


394  Broken  Arcs 

tlons,  and  they  play  on,  and  ruin,  your  nerves,  and 
through  your  nerves  they'll  wreck  your  life.  He's 
impulsive;  and  so  between  the  two  of  you  there's  the 
very  deuce  to  pay.  I'll  have  you  two  married  within 
a  month;  and  then  you  can  fight  out  your  troubles  at 
close  quarters.  That'll  right  you  soon  enough;  and 
you  are  made  for  each  other  in  many  ways.  In  a 
month,  I  say;  and  don't  struggle!  No,  nor  argue! 
But  what!     Who  is  this?" 

It  was  the  neglected  Jim.  He  had  been  stretched 
on  a  seat,  surveying  the  sumptuous  panoply  of  heavens. 
He  had  leapt  to  his  feet  at  their  approach. 


VI 

When  Harry  returned  the  following  day — which 
he  did  as  soon  after  dawn  as  decency  permitted — it 
was  a  more  self-possessed  Rose  that  greeted  him  on 
the  stair.  Yesterday  she  was  a  quivering  memory  of 
the  blow  that  had  stung  her  months  back  in  the  gloom 
of  a  winter's  dusk.  To-day  a  new  solicitude  for  him 
had  been  awakened  in  her.  It  was  to  both  something 
softer  and  rarer,  but  of  much  the  same  zest,  as  the 
first  high  joy  of  love.  Their  bark  of  felicity  floated 
through  smoother  sounds,  on  waters  less  full  of  tumult 
and  revelry,  than  the  rivers  of  unknown  wonder  it  had 
travelle'd  when  first  they  were  united  passengers  on  it. 
The  bright  vivid  landscapes  of  joy  were  now  wide 
horizons  of  joy  too  calm  to  be  wild.  Yet  as  they 
sailed,  it  was  a  careful  tiller  he  took.  Sounds  there 
were,  reefs  and  ridges,  that  demanded  navigation. 
These  were  to  him  sharp  memories  of  earlier  ship- 
wreck; the  more  stringent  for  that,  and  a  call  to  his 
utmost  brain. 


Conclusions  395 

Memory  of  their  separation,  and  the  cause  of  it, 
they  both  avoided,  even  as  they  might  have  foreborne 
touching  a  sensitive  wound.  The  wall  of  opposition 
had  crumbled  at  a  sight  of  eyes.  Each  rejoiced;  but 
neither  rejoiced  openly.     It  was  a  subterrene  topic. 

Then  as  they  walked  the  garden  he  broached  the 
subject  his  mind  was  urgent  with. 

"Rose,"  said  he,  '*do  you  mind  if  I  ask  you  an  awk- 
ward question?"  r      •     i 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him  furtively. 

"It's  about  your  first  great  trouble."  He  spoke 
tenderly  and,  as  it  were,  fearfully,  for  he  noticed  she 
shrunk  at  mention  of  the  subject.  "You  know  I  have 
never  mentioned  it  nor  spoken  of  it.  For  one  thing, 
it's  nothing  to  do  with  me;  and  besides,  Fm  only  too 
anxious  that  you  should  forget  it.  But  would  you 
mind  telling  me  the  name  of— of— this  man— that  is 
to  say — Jim's  father?" 

His  very  confusion  made  her  to  quiver  with  sensi- 
tiveness. 

"I'd  rather  you  didn't  ask  me,  Harry,"  she  said. 
"My  dearest   own  sweetheart,   don't  think  I   ask 
you  out   of  mere  curiosity.     You  know   that,   don't 

you?" 

"But  I'd  rather  you  didn't  mention  the  subject." 

"I  have  a  reason,  dear." 

"Oh,  don't,  dear!     Don't  let  us  talk  about  it!" 

A  little  frankness  on  his  side,  he  felt,  would  have 
discovered  him  what  he  wanted  to  know.  But  he 
could  not  twist  himself  to  that  necessary  pitch  of  firm- 
ness. How  much  of  his  own  timorousness  produced 
this  sensitiveness  in  her,  he  could  not  say.  But  it 
arose  against  him,  forbidding  any  further  discussion 
of  the  theme. 

Yet  the  matter  was  awake  in  his  mind,  and  he  could 


396  Broken  Arcs 

not  rest  till  Illumination  had  led  to  the  action  his  mood 
demanded.     So  he  turned  later  to  Mr.  Bradley. 

"You  know  all  the  details  of  Rose's  big  trouble  In 
Suffolk,  don't  you?"  he  asked. 

*'I  didn't  ask  too  much;  but  I  naturally  came  to 
know  most  of  It." 

"Well,  would  you  mind  telling  me  the  name  of  the 
man,  Mr.  Bradley?" 

"But  what  does  It  matter  at  this  time  of  day, 
Harry?" 

Harry  felt  the  prick  of  distrust  In  the  question. 
Mr.  Bradley's  face,  too,  looked  a  perplexed  query. 
In  fact,  he  was  wondering  If  Harry  could  be  raising 
this  as  an  attempt  to  get  level  their  mutual  failures. 
It  seemed  to  him  Incredible  that  this  could  be  so. 

"You  misunderstand  me,"  said  Harry  sturdily;  "but 
I  have  a  reason  for  asking  the  question.  It's  a  long 
tale,  but  briefly  It  Is  this.  You  know  this  money  I 
have  made?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  have  a  fancy  that  one  of  the  two  Is  the 
man  In  question." 

"What?" 

"I  think  so.  Let  me  tell  you.  I  never  really  liked 
him,  but  he  seems  to  have  liked  me  from  the  first  day 
we  met.  Well,  you  know,  like  begets  like,  and  so  I 
continued  the  friendship  quite  apart  from  the  business 
relationship.  Besides  that,  something  Indefinable  at- 
tracted me  to  the  man :  he  seemed  strangely  like  some- 
body I  knew.  That  haunted  me — and  partly  also,  I 
suppose,  his  being  a  Suffolk  man,  for,  though  Suffolk 
is  not  a  small  place,  my  Interest  In  It  Is  small,  and  one 
is  apt  to  link  Interest  with  Interest.  He  puzzled  and 
worried  me.  It  wasn't  till  I  saw  Jim  yesterday  that 
I  realized  what  It  was.     I  was  going  to  lunch  with  this 


Conclusions  397 

man,  and  so  I  took  Jim  along  with  me.  And  then  I 
saw  the  likeness  between  them.  It  was  not  a  super- 
ficial likeness;  but  once  seen  it  was  startling.  When 
I  saw  it,  it  was  as  though  an  unseen  hand  had  struck 
me  a  blow.  I  couldn't  trust  myself  to  speak  to 
him  for  some  time.  Then  I  got  from  him  the 
fact  that  his  country  house  was  quite  close  to  Ip- 
stowe.'*  ^ 

"The  other  man's  name  was  Colquhoun,  didn  t  you 

say  once?" 

"His  full  name  is  Webber-Colquhoun,  Richard 
Webber-Colquhoun." 

"Good  heavens!" 

"Then  it  is  the  same."     Harry  spoke  grimly. 

"And  Jim  lunched  with  himl  Father  and  sonl 
What  an  extraordinary  thing!" 

Harry   made   no    reply.     The    subject    nauseated 

him. 

"And   you   made   two   thousand   pounds   through 

him!" 

"By  a  swindle !"     It  was  the  explosion  of  nausea. 

"Eh?" 

"Yes,  by  a  swindle;  by  a  financial  swindle  that  the 
law  was  privy  to.     It  makes  me  sick." 

"I  don't  follow  you." 

"The  Candida  concession  had  no  oil;  it  was  a  fake. 
Oh  Lord!  to  think  I  helped  in  it!  The  shares  were 
wire-pulled  up  and  down  by  this  man  Barras,  and  the 
gang — I,  one  of  them! — sold  at  the  top  and  bought 
at  the  bottom  of  the  fluctuations.  It's  wound  up  now; 
but  we  were  all  told  to  sell  out  first,  however.  I've 
been  making  inquiries  this  past  fortnight.  I  didn't 
think  such  things  could  be  done,  in  my  wild  innocence. 
Why,  one  of  the  very  men  who  lost  scoffed  at  me  when 
I  suggested  an  inquiry.     He  said  it  would  be  bad 


398  Broken  Arcs 

form  I  I  suppose  he  hopes  to  make  It  level  next 
time." 

"Harry,  what  will  you  do  with  this  money?*'  Mr. 
Bradley's  eyes  now  flashed  fire. 

"Do?  Why,  return  it  to  this  lecher-swindler  this 
very  night,  and  leave  him  something  in  its  place." 

"Steady!" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  steady.  I  want  to  let  myself 
go;  it's  my  moral  duty  to  do  so." 

"I  feel  indignant,  too;  but  don't  lose  restraint  on 
yourself." 

"That's  just  what  I  want  to  do.  There  are  times 
when  it's  necessary." 


VII 

That  night  Webber-Colquhoun  was  sitting  easily 
in  his  chair  waiting.  He  had  received  a  telegram 
earlier  In  the  day  from  Harry  informing  him  that  he 
proposed  calling  that  evening  on  ah  extremely  urgent 
matter.  Therefore  he  had  stayed  In,  having  wired  to 
Gerald  Barras  asking  that  gentleman  to  call  that  even- 
ing. He  trusted  that  by  the  time  Harry  got  on  to  the 
awkward  topic  Barras  would  arrive,  to  extricate  him 
from  an  awkward  situation,  and  had  adjusted  the 
times  accordingly. 

Peaceful  after-dinner  emotions  stirred  in  him  as  he 
regaled  himself  over  a  cigar.  The  world  had  dealt 
easily  with  him,  and  consequently  he  had  cause  for  the 
eupeptic  comfort  that  moved  delightedly  in  his  veins. 

He  had  been  annoyed  at  his  previous  day's  alterca- 
tion with  Harry;  annoyed,  firstly,  because  it  had  dis- 
tressed him  and  made  him  uncomfortable;  secondly, 
because  he  liked  Harry.     Harry  was  healthy;  and  to 


Conclusions  399 

Webber-Colquhoun  this  was  a  zest  in  life.  However, 
Barras  would  doubtless  lay  all  those  disturbances  to 
rest  with  his  customary  deftness,  after  which,  it  was 
to  be  hoped,  matters  would  flow  smoothly  and  happily. 
Yes,  he  would  ask  Harry  if  he  would  go  up  to  Scot- 
land with  him  for  the  Twelfth.  That  would  surely 
allay  disquietude. 

Yes,  he  liked  that  chap  Denzil;  and  it  was  worth 
while  putting  oneself  out  a  bit  for  one  so  cultured  of 
thought  and  so  thorough  in  his  ways.  Besides,  he 
was  obviously  a  gentleman.  It  was  a  matter  of  count, 
these  days.     One  could  not  say  so  much  of  Barras. 

In  the  midst  of  these  peaceful  reflections  Harry 
broke  on  his  loneliness. 

"Ah,  glad  to  see  you,  Denzil,'*  said  he;  "very  glad, 
believe  me !  Why  didn't  you  leave  your  hat  and  coat 
in  the  hall?" 

"FU  put  them  down  here,  if  I  may."  As  he  spoke 
Harry  bent  in  his  hand  a  switch  cane.  His  manner 
seemed  determinedly  negligent. 

"Yes,  do  I  Anywhere  you  like.  I  thought  you  dis- 
liked what  you're  pleased  to  call  *dandy  canes.'  " 

"So  I  do.  But  they're  useful  sometimes.  I  bought 
this  to-day." 

"Well,  if  you're  going  to  get  married,  you'll  need 
it.  They're  the  sort  of  thing  for  youngsters,  I  should 
think." 

"I  hope  I  should  never  be  so  brutal  as  to  strike  a 
child,  least  of  all  with  a  weapon.  Now,  a  manl" 
Harry  made  the  air  sing  with  a  fanciful  stroke. 

"My  dear  chap,  you're  a  perfect  monster.     Put  it 
down,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  and  come  over  to  the  fire." 
Harry  came  over  as  he  was   requested  to.     His 
mood   was    excited,    so    he    said    nothing.     Webber- 
Colquhoun    felt   the   necessity   of    carrying   the   con- 


400  Broken  Arcs 

versation    over    awkward    silences,    and   continued — 

*'So  you  don't  believe  in  castigation  for  children." 

"No,  I  can't  say  I  do.'' 

"Finest  thing  out.  I  wouldn't  care  to  do  it  much 
myself.  But  it's  a  thing  that  ought  to  be  done  when 
needed,  as  a  sort  of  discipline." 

"You  seem  to  speak  from  experience." 

"Good  Lord,  man!     I'm  not  married." 

"That  doesn't  always  stop  a  man  from  having  chil- 
dren." 

"Now  you're  Indelicate,  Denzil.  I  must  say  I 
scarcely  expected  that  sort  of  thing  from  you." 

"But  It's  talk  of  the  world,  isn't  it?" 

"Still 1"     A   deprecatory  hand  concluded  his 

meaning. 

"But,  say!  what  would  you  do  if  you  found  your- 
self saddled  suddenly  with  the  responsibility  of  a 
child?" 

"You'll  excuse  me,  but  I'd  rather  not  discuss  that 
question." 

"I  see!" 

"You  came  round,  I  think,  to  discuss  the  question 
of  the  Candida.  So  I  have  asked  Barras  to  come 
round  here  to  discuss  the  question  with  you.  He 
knows  more  of  the  details  than  I  do." 

"I  suppose  it  wasn't  that  you  thought  he  would  be 
better  able  to  avoid  the  real  issue  than  yourself." 

"If  you  have  determined  to  be  unpleasant,  I  don't 
see  much  use  In  your  staying."  Webber-Colquhoun 
spoke  with  asperity. 

"When  did  you  say  he  would  be  here?" 

"In  half-an-hour's  time  or  so." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  be  here  so  long."  Webber- 
Colquhoun  looked  round  with  some  surprise,  but 
Harry  went  on,  It  must  be  confessed,  more  than  a 


Conclusions  401 

little  excitedly.  "In  fact,  I  brought  round  with  me 
notes  to  the  full  amount  of  my  illicit  gains  from  you. 
For  the  sake  of  formality,  I'll  get  you  to  sign  this 
receipt.'* 

Webber-Colquhoun  thrust  back  his  chair  as  he  rose 
in  his  protest.  He  regarded  Harry  amazedly  as  he 
drew  out  from  his  pocket  a  bundle  of  bank-notes  which 
he  counted  before  him,  placing  a  neatly  typewritten 
receipt  on  the  top  of  them,  ready  stamped  for  signa- 
ture. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  man;  don't  be  a  fool!  I  don't 
want  your  money." 

"It's  because  I  don't  wish  it  to  be  called  or  known 
as  my  money,  that  I  return  it.  You'll  find  that  pre- 
cisely represents  the  amount  of  your  original  gift  to 
me  as  juggled  with  since.  It's  over  two  thousand 
pounds  now,  as  you  know.  You'll  find  on  this  paper 
an  account  of  all  the  transactions  that  show  how  it 
burgeoned  to  this  figure.  Will  you  kindly  sign  the 
receipt?" 

"Certainly  not!  I  don't  want  your  money.''  He 
thrust  the  pile  of  notes  aside  as  he  spoke,  with  an 
indignant  gesture. 

"Do  I  understand  that  you're  so  much  of  the  cur 
that  you  will  take  my  money  without  giving  me  a 
receipt?" 

"You  insult  me.     I  don't  want  the  money." 

"I  insist  on  leaving  it.     Will  you  sign  the  receipt?" 

"Oh,  very  well !  If  you  insist  on  doing  a  damned 
silly  quixotic  trick,  I  suppose  I  can't  stop  you."  He 
seized  a  pen  and  scribbled  his  name  hastily  over 
his  sovereign's  physiognomy.  "Now  are  you  satis- 
fied?" 

Harry  contemplated  the  signature,  saying— 

"You  would  have  done  better  to  have  examined  the 


402  Broken  Arcs 

wording.  It  happens  to  exonerate  me  from  all  blame 
in  the  Candida  swindle." 

"Whatever  it  is,  IVe  signed  it.  Now  I  think  you 
had  better  go." 

Harry  went  over  to  his  coat  and  returned  with  his 
cane. 

"There's  one  more  matter  I  wanted  to  discuss  with 
you." 

"Well!"  ^ 

"You  said  you  have  never  had  any  children. 
That'll  make  It  very  difficult  for  you  to  understand 
my  position.  That  little  fellow  you  saw  me  with  is 
the  son  of  my  fiancee,  as  I  told  you.  She  had  never 
been  married;  that  is  to  say,  legally  married,  though 
I  hope  to  remedy  that  in  a  very  short  while.  Fm  try- 
ing to  find  the  father.  Will  you  help  me?  You  have 
money;  and,  as  you  see,  I  have  none  now." 

"Certainly  not!  It's  no  business  of  mine.  Be- 
sides that,  you're  more  of  a  fool  than  I  thought,  tak- 
ing on  a  girl  like  that." 

"I'm  sorry  you  won't.  You  see,  you  could  help 
me  greatly.     The  affair  took  place  at  Ipstowe." 

The  shaft  seemed  not  to  have  struck  Webber- 
Colquhoun,  for  his  manner  was  negligent  when  he 
spoke. 

"Oh!"  said  he. 

"Yes,  it  was  some  years  ago."  Harry  endeavoured 
to  speak  with  calmness  and  incision,  but  his  voice 
quivered  with  emotion.  "Her  name  was  Rose  Fog- 
getty." 

Webber-Colquhoun  looked  puzzled.  Time  had 
erased  names  with  him,  and  this  one  awoke  no  memo- 
ries of  itself.  But  Harry's  manner  of  suppressed  ex- 
citement indicated  a  strong  personal  feeling,  for  which 
it  seemed  difficult  to   account.     Moreover,    he    was 


Conclusions  403 

bending  his  switch  to  and  fro  In  an  alarming  manner. 
All  which  projected  some  considerable  excitement  into 
him.  The  atmosphere  was  electric,  and  conveyed 
uneasiness  into  his  brain.  It  seemed  something  mo- 
mentous hung  over  him.  But  he  knew  not  what  it 
was,  and  therefore  knew  not  what  reply  to  make. 

"Damn  it,  man!  haven't  you  got  anything  to  say? 
Are  you  so  grossly  cynical  as  that?  His  name  was 
Richard  Webber.'' 

Webber-Colquhoun  paled  suddenly,  and  leant  back 
in  his  chair.  There  was  something  very  like  horror 
in  his  eyes. 

*'Good  God!"  he  murmured,  putting  out  his  hand 
as  though  to  ward  off  an  intangible  terror.  *'Good 
God!" 

"Good  God,"  Harry  breathed  in  contempt.  "How 
does  it  help  the  situation  saying  that?  IVe  come  with 
a  judgment  to  pay,  and  that's  why  I  brought  this 
cane." 

Webber-Colquhoun  made  no  reply,  but  stared  past 
Harry  as  though  he  had  seen  something  that  filled  him 
with  horror. 

"Stand  up  and  defend  yourself." 

Still  the  other  made  no  move,  and  Harry  found  he 
had  to  maintain  himself  at  fury  by  artificial  whipping 
of  his  wrath. 

"Stand  up  and  defend  yourself,  and  save  me  from 
the  indignity  of  attacking  a  defenceless  man  the  same 
as  our  judicature  does."  Harry  touched  the  other 
lightly  on  the  knee  with  his  cane  to  arouse  him  to 
action. 

"I  can  only  say  I'm  sorry."  Webber-Colquhoun 
rose  erect  as  he  spoke. 

"That's  only  from  you  to  me,"  said  Harry,  "not 
from  you  to  the  deed,  as  witness  your  remark  a  few 


404  Broken  Arcs 

minutes  ago  that  you  thought  I  was  a  fool  to  take  up 

with  that  sore  of "     Revulsion  seized  Harry  as 

he  spoke,  and  with  a  swift  movement  he  applied  his 
cane  to  his  opponent. 

Stung  with  pain,  Webber-Colquhoun  sprung  at 
Harry  to  wrest  the  cane  from  him.  Harry  was  the 
stronger,  however.  Moreover,  he  had  wrath  on  his 
side.  He  flung  the  other  off,  and  leaping  forward, 
bore  him  back  over  the  chair  on  which  he  had  lately 
been  sitting.  Then  with  a  quick  manipulation  he  spun 
him  about,  and  applied  the  castigation. 

The  victim  took  his  penalty  like  a  man,  and  when 
Harry  presently  betook  himself  off,  breathing  fiercely, 
and  flushed  from  his  excitement  and  exercise,  he  con- 
tented himself  with  an  oath  that  betrayed  considerable 
emotion,  and  an  emphatic  threat  to  carry  the  issue  to 
legal  adjustment. 

Rapidly  Harry  flew  down  the  stairs,  and  when  in 
the  street  without  he  ran  into  a  man's  arms.  Apolo- 
gizing hastily,  Harry  was  about  to  turn  away,  when 
a  voice  exclaimed — 

**  Ton  my  word,  Denzil !    By  all  that's  wonderful !" 

Looking  round,  he  saw  that  it  was  Barras  he  had 
run  into. 

"Sorry.  I  can't  stop.  Fm  in  a  hurry,"  he  said, 
and  fled. 

"Odd  man,  that  chap  Denzil !  One  of  the  squeamish 
kind,"  muttered  Barras,  as  he  turned  into  the  house. 

To  his  considerable  amazement  he  found  his  late 
partner  striding  up  and  down  before  the  fire  groaning 
heavily.  On  the  table  before  him  were  strewn  bank 
notes. 

"Hullo!  what's  the  matter?"  he  said  cheerily  and 
expansively.     "I  just  met  that  chap  Denzil  outside." 

"Yes,    damn    him  I"     Webber-Colquhoun    had    his 


Conclusions  4^5 

hand  applied  to  the  tenderer  portions  of  his  anatomy, 
and  his  face  expressed  mingled  anger  and  pain. 

**Hullo !  I  thought  you  were  such  friends !  Have 
you  been  falling  out?  And  what  the  deuce  are  you 
twisting  about  like  that  for?  In  pain?  You  don't 
look  very  agreeable  about  It,  anyhow/* 

"Oh,  damn  him  I  and  damn  you,  BarrasI  Why  the 
devil  don't  you  clear  out  of  It?" 

"YouVe  not  mentally  happy,  that's  evident.  And 
you  seem  devilish  uncomfortable  physically.  Bank- 
notes, too  I  Not  further  bribes,  that  the  noble  youth 
scorned  to  take?" 

"Devil  take  you,  Barras!     Get  out  of  it!" 

"Well,  you  needn't  be  undignified  about  it,  what- 
ever it  is." 

"I'm  not  very  well,  and  I  want  to  be  alone." 

"Oh,  very  well!  I'm  only  too  delighted,  I  assure 
you." 

Feeling  very  uncomfortable,  Webber-Colquhoun 
went  to  his  bed  vowing  legal  penalties  on  Harry.  He 
slept  but  fitfully,  and  with  the  first  streak  of  dawn  he 
was  half  awakened.  His  blind  was  fully  drawn  down, 
but  being  of  some  pale  buff  substance,  it  was  gaily 
illuminated  by  the  radiant  sunlight  without.  It  an- 
noyed him  this  morning.  He  turned  away  from  It,  but 
no  sooner  was  he  asleep  again  than  he  turned  thither 
once  more.  It  was  a  blank  page  whereon  was  no 
writing;  and  it  annoyed  him. 

Presently  the  shadow  of  some  distant  bulbous  orna- 
mentation floated  across  it.  Gently  it  swam  about  on 
the  smooth  buff  surface  as  the  blind  was  blown  to  and 
fro,  steadily  making  its  way  from  horizon  to  horizon. 
His  restless  eyes  fell  on  it  ever  and  anon;  and  though 
he  turned  away  from  it,  yet  it  seemed  scarcely  a  mo- 
ment before  he  would  be  gazing  on  it  again.     Even 


4o6  Broken  Arcs 

when  his  eyes  were  closed  he  saw  It  swaying  to  and 
fro  before  his  brain. 

Then  It  seemed  changed.  It  grew  like  an  old  man's 
bald  crown,  tufted  with  an  encircling  fringe  of  grey 
hair.  It  wrung  a  wildly  familiar  and  morbid  pity  from 
him  to  see  age  thus  In  futile  drudgery,  for  the  parts 
of  the  picture  filled  In,  and  he  saw  this  ancient  head 
bowed  patiently  over  an  enormous  tome,  writing  In  It 
what  would  never  be  concluded.  As  It  swayed  to  and 
fro  It  grew  Inexpressibly  pitiful,  for  It  seemed  to  totter 
with  age.  It  plucked  tearful  chords  In  his  breast,  and 
harassed  his  dreams. 

He  saw  himself,  younger  and  gayer  It  seemed, 
bowed  In  pathetic  Interest  over  the  toil  of  the  ancient 
head.  Then  It  all  passed,  and  he  saw  Instead  an 
avenging  Harry,  with  a  huge  and  sinister  rod  and  wild- 
gleaming  eyes.  He  shrank  from  the  picture.  It,  too, 
passed,  with  a  swift  erasure.  The  old  picture  came 
back,  of  the  swaying  grey  head  and  himself  bent  ten- 
derly over  it.  To  It  was  now  added  an  avenging 
Harry,  clad  in  marvellous  raiment,  chastising  him  for 
having  set  this  feeble  form  Its  weary  drudgery.  He 
shrank  In  horror  from  the  revelation.  He  shuddered 
with  unutterable  revulsion,  and  as  he  turned  quickly 
away  he  seemed  to  feel  the  lash  about  him.  It  woke 
him;  and  he  lay  thinking  over  It.  Even  now,  awake 
though  he  was,  he  seemed  to  be  pleading  with  Harry 
In  a  self-accusing  self-defence. 

Then  he  fell  to  drowsy  slumber  again.  Once  more 
the  phantasy  colled  through  his  brain,  but  now  with  a 
cunning  difference.  His  pitying  self  and  an  avenging 
angel  were  purged  from  the  picture,  and  the  head  was 
bowed  over  his  toil  through  an  eternity  of  gloom. 
Presently  it  looked  up;  and  its  face  was  Harry's.  Hor- 
ror hypnotized  his  limbs,  for  the  hand  ceased  from  its 


Conclusions  407 

toll,  and,  reaching  forth,  flung  a  bunch  of  bank-notes 
at  his  feet.  A  look  of  unspeakable  scorn  crossed  over 
the  face  as  It  bent  to  Its  toll  again.  He  dared  not 
give  it  his  pity:  the  bank-notes  at  his  feet  mocked 
him. 

He  found  himself  awake  in  a  trance  of  terror.  He 
gazed  over  at  the  blind  for  the  bulbous  shadow.  It 
was  gone,  and  the  buff  serenity  was  undisturbed. 

He  sprung  out  of  bed,  and  as  he  did  so  he  cried  out 
with  pain.  Recollection  of  Its  cause  brought  a  reso- 
nant anathema  of  Harry  to  his  lips;  but  no  sooner  was 
it  uttered  than  its  sound  rebuked  him.  As  he  tenderly 
felt  his  bruises  memory  of  his  dreams  came  on  him. 
He  had  long  since  emptied  out  a  stultifying  emotion 
from  his  life;  but  shreds  of  it  clung  about  his  soul  In 
the  form  of  sentlmentalism.  In  lieu  of  its  bigger, 
purer  self  it  began  to  work  on  him;  and  grew  more 
buxom  thereby.  The  figure  of  his  dreams  haunted 
him,  and  he  avoided  looking  at  the  bank-notes  he  had 
brought  In  and  placed  on  his  dressing-table.  He  grew 
to  a  sudden  resolve. 

The  effort  of  attiring  sorely  bruised  limbs  well-nigh 
ruined  his  determination.  But  he  clung  to  It  desper- 
ately, almost  doggedly.  Quickly,  even  agitatedly,  he 
made  his  way  into  the  other  room  and  wrote  a  letter 
of  apology  to  Harry.  Sealing  and  stamping  It,  he 
sent  it  off  immediately  to  an  irretractable  post.  This 
done,  he  avoided  thinking  of  it. 


VIII 

Glowing  with  his  recent  exercise,  Harry  made  his 
way  to  Battersby's  flat.  As  the  blood  flowed  richly  in 
his  veins  his  thought  enthused  over  the  castigation  he 


4o8  Broken  Arcs 

had  meted  out.  The  day  was  that  of  Battersby*s  one 
remission  from  night  labour,  and  therefore  that  gentle- 
man was  in  to  hail  the  avenging  victor. 

"You  look  warm,"  said  he. 

"I  feel  warm,'*  came  the  reply. 

"  'Tis  a  bit  sultry." 

"IVe  had  some  sultry  work." 

"Oh  I" 

"Yes,  rather  I"  said  Harry,  switching  his  cane  about. 

"Put  the  murderous  weapon  down,  my  dear  man, 
and  sit  down  like  a  peaceable  Christian,  for  God's 
sake  I" 

"Yes,  I've  had  sultry  work." 

"So  I  gather.  Anyhow,  it's  pleasing  to  see  a  little 
zest  in  your  eye.     I  began  to  despair  of  you  lately." 

"I've  got  a  lot  to  tell  you." 

"Fire  ahead!     I'm  one  large  ear.'* 

"First  of  all,  the  Candida  had  no  oil." 

"I  saw  it  was  wound  up  the  other  day,  and  I  drew 
my  own  conclusions.  But  I  don't  see  that  it's  any- 
thing to  be  gleeful  about." 

"No;  perhaps  not!" 

"I  could  wish  you  were  a  little  less  gnomic." 

"I  find  out  that  Barras  is  an  expert  in  this  kind  of 
thing,  and  has  done  It  systematically  for  years.  He 
knows  exactly  how  far  to  go." 

"Oh!" 

"Yes.  Or,  In  other  words,  I  made  two  thousand 
odd  pounds  In  pure  highway  robbery  with  the  law's 
connivance." 

"I  shouldn't  be  too  finical  on  that  point." 

"I've  just  taken  It  back  In  crisp  Bank  of  England 
notes,  and  given  It  back  to  my  pure-minded  bene- 
factor  " 

"Fudge!" 


Conclusions  409 

"Fact!  With  a  bit  more  besides  of  a  different 
sort." 

Battersby  regarded  the  glowing  face  of  his  friend 
pensively  awhile  before  he  spoke.     Then  he  said — 

"I  don't  agree  with  It.  I  believe  in  spoiling  the 
Philistines — or  Egyptians,  was  it?  Egyptians,  that's 
it.  I  believe  in  spoiling  the  Egyptians.  It's  an  honest 
man's  duty.  You've  given  them  further  power  for 
evil,  in  other  words ;  whereas  In  your  hands  the  money 
would  have  been  used  to  good  effect.  It  savours 
too  much  of  quixotry  for  health.  It  was  unwisely 
done." 

*'Maybe.  But  I  was  clearing  my  own  blame  in  the 
matter.  In  fact,  I've  got  a  receipt  in  my  pocket  In 
which  he  declares,  over  his  signature,  that  I  am  exon- 
erated In  the  Candida  swindle,  being  led  to  assume 
that  it  was  a  sound  and  true  concern." 

'*I  suppose  that's  worth  more  than  two  thousand  to 
you  if  you  cared  to  make  use  of  it." 

Harry  snorted  in  contempt. 

"But  that's  not  all,"  said  he.  "I've  given  that  chap 
iWebber-Colquhoun  the  cleanest  castlgation  I've  ever 
seen  or  heard  of."  Harry  took  up  his  cane,  and 
swung  it  about  In  memory  of  his  achievement. 

"No." 

"Yes." 

"You'll  have  the  law  on  you." 

"I  suppose  I  will — for  being  an  agent  of  justice.  I 
don't  care." 

"I  don't  like  It,  old  chap."  Battersby  rose  as  he 
spoke,  and  strode  about  the  room. 

"Why?"     Harry's  tone  was  defiant. 

"It's  emphasis;  and  I  don't  like  emphasis.  Em- 
phasis leads  to  revulsion,  and  is  a  kind  of  disbelief." 

"Nonsense,  man!" 


410  Broken  Arcs 

*'It  is:  you  think  it  over.  Your  own  tone  implies 
it.  Haven't  you  ever  noticed  in  your  experience  that 
if  ever  you  have  given  your  emphatic  opinion  on  a 
subject  that  it's  on  that  very  subject  your  opinion  is 
most  apt  to  change?  It's  one  of  the  most  familiar 
things  in  experience:  history  is  full  of  it.  People  call 
it  Nemesis;  but  it's  not:  it's  the  logic  of  psychology. 
Your  emphasis  was  born  of  a  lack  of  real  conviction, 
which  led  after  to  a  change  of  attitude.  The  men  that 
change  most  are  the  men  that  are  most  dogmatic,  be- 
cause their  very  dogmatism  is  a  contention  with  them- 
selves." 

"You're  getting  beautifully  paradoxical." 

Battersby  stopped  in  his  perambulation,  and  looked 
at  Harry. 

*'It's  unlike  you,  Denzil,"  he  said,  "to  try  and  knock 
a  man  down  with  a  name.  Paradox  or  not,  isn't  it 
true?  You  look  over  the  men  you  know.  Why,  I 
could  give  you  several  straight  off." 

Harry  returned  Battersby's  look  steadily;  and  as 
he  did  so  it  dawned  on  him  that  the  castigation  he  had 
dealt  out  was  not  for  the  reason  he  had  stated  at  all; 
but  for  another  reason  impossible  to  state.  It  seemed 
alarming  to  him  that  he  could  so  entirely  have  deluded 
himself  into  the  excitement  of  such  an  assumption.  He 
felt  an  aversion  to  continuing  the  subject. 

"Oh,  I  admit  there's  much  in  what  you  say;  only 
it's  not  all." 

"On  the  other  hand,"  came  the  response,  "there's 
much  that  makes  us  proud  of  manhood  in  what  you 
did."  He  seated  himself  again.  "Now  I  call  that  a 
chivalrous  interchange."  He  looked  whimsically  over 
at  Harry. 

"I  met  Rose  the  other  day,"  said  Harry,  a  silence 
having  wrapped  them  awhile. 


Conclusions  411 

"Really?"  said  Battersby,  and  the  single  word  was 
charged  with  eager  inquiry. 

"Yes;  it's  all  settled  between  us." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  old  chap;  very  glad.  My 
congratulations."     He  stretched  over  his  hand. 

"I  knew  If  I  met  her  I  could  soon  settle  the  miser- 
able affair,"  Harry  said,  closing  his  own  in  the  prof- 
fered hand. 

"It  was  strange  how  we  met,"  Harry  continued,  and 
he  spun  the  tale  before  Battersby's  attention.  It  was 
a  brief  tale  that  he  told;  a  tale  of  deletions,  for  its 
chiefest  Interest  to  him  it  was  impossible  to  give 
Battersby. 


IX 

Mr.  Bradley  had  sped  from  one  extreme  to  an- 
other. During  these  months  he  had  read  the  calamity 
they  contained  as  Time's  rebuke  to  his  philosophy.  He 
never  spoke  of  Harry  to  Rose,  for  she  wilted  at  the 
subject  as  at  a  scourge.  But  he  knew  that  even  her 
seeming  conviction  of  mind  was  a  low  muffled  cry  for 
Harry,  not  the  less  plaintive  for  being  swathed  in  the 
efforts  of  her  will.  As  for  Harry,  he  could  only  Imag- 
ine how  he  suffered.  And  seeing  that  the  appeal  was 
to  the  imagination  it  was  the  more  poignant  for  that. 

He  had  felt  partly  responsible  for  all  this  pain. 
Therefore,  now  that  Harry  was  returned,  now  that 
love  had  returned  to  its  own,  very  touching  in  Its  hesi- 
tations and  shyness,  he  was  determined  to  put  the 
whole  matter  forthwith  to  the  Issue  of  marriage. 

He  spoke  to  Rose,  but  found  her  very  sensitive  and 
tender  on  the  subject.  He  could  see  that  a  voice  in 
her  cried  eagerly  In  favour  of  the  proposal;  but  an- 


412  Broken  Arcs 

other  voice  spoke  against  It,  and  In  the  controversy  so 
awakened  she  grew  fearful.  He  therefore  added  the 
voice  of  authority  to  the  plaintive  In  the  case,  and  left 
the  Issue  to  resolve  Itself  so. 

He  spoke  to  Harry. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Bradley,  I  agree  with  you,''  came  the 
response.     "I'll  have  a  talk  with  Rose." 

Mr.  Bradley  said  nothing  of  having  already  spoken 
with  her,  for  he  thought  this  eager  youth  might  quickly 
take  umbrage  at  so  dire  an  Interposition  of  authority 
in  the  ways  of  lovers.  He  breathed  a  prayer  heaven- 
ward In  half  humour  that  Rose  might  not  let  fall  such 
indiscreet  knowledge. 

"We'll  have  to  proceed  simply  enough.  In  all  con- 
science," Harry  went  on.  "I'm  not  the  capitalist  I 
was  yesterday." 

"Oh,  how  did  you  get  on?'* 

"I  gave  him  all  his  cash  back,  and  a  good  whipping 
beside." 

"I  don't  like  to  think  of  it,  my  boy." 

"I  must  admit,  nor  do  I.  But  that's  worth  read- 
ing."    Harry  displayed  his  receipt. 

"I'm  glad  you  gave  the  money  back,"  said  Mr. 
Bradley  then,  suggesting  suspicion  of  the  other  by  In- 
ference. "As  to  a  matter  of  money,  I  wish  Rose  and 
yourself  would  stay  here.  I'm  an  old  fogey,"  he 
went  on  hastily,  "and  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  last  out 
much  longer.  I  should  make  over  everything  to  both 
of  you  jointly,  and  live  as  your  guest." 

Harry  had  toyed  before  his  eyes  a  gentle  picture  of 
two  rooms  in  which  Rose  and  himself  were  to  do  battle 
with  adversity.  It  had  beckoned  him  bewltchlngly 
through  indefiniteness  and  obscurity.  This  present 
proposal,  with  its  comparative  munificence,  robbed  him 
of  the  heroic,  and  was  unwelcome.     It  robbed  him  of 


Conclusions  413 

the  emotion  of  a  nomad,  too,  and  was  doubly  unwel- 
come. But  It  was  Impossible  to  breathe  even  so  much 
as  a  zephyr  of  opposition  to  It,  so  pathetically,  gener- 
ously, and  graciously  had  It  been  put. 

Rose  came  In  to  baulk  further  discussion,  and  Mr. 
Bradley,  waving  the  flimsiest  excuse,  fled  the  scene. 

In  the  Interlude  of  love-like  caresses  Harry  whis- 
pered his  scheme. 

"Has  father  been  speaking  to  you?"  asked  she,  a 
quick  loyalty  to  him  alight  In  her  to  think  that  even 
one  so  close  as  Mr.  Bradley  should  speak  with  Harry 
on  a  matter  that  concerned  her  and  him  alone. 

"I  spoke  of  It  to  him,"  replied  Harry,  catching  her 
thought.  *'He  asks  us  to  live  here,  he  to  be  our 
guest." 

She  was  caught  unsuspectingly  to  an  assumption  of 
the  fact. 

"I  would  rather  we  were  alone,  dear,"  she  said. 

"So  would  I!  But  you  wouldn't  have  us  leave 
him?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  she  responded,  refusing  that  picture 
also. 

"We'll  arrange  about  It  to-morrow.  We've  already 
missed  one  day."  The  peal  of  bells  through  the  air 
reminded  him. 

"Must  it  be  so  soon?"  she  cried,  in  fear  of  such 
proximity. 

"Why  wait,  dear  heart?     My  life's  a  bit  lonely." 

It  was  a  meretricious  plea,  but  failed  not  to  touch 
her  sympathy  and  womanly  soul.  What  was  lacking 
to  win  was  more  than  half-won  thereby.  She  put  up 
a  last  quavering  fight. 

"Don't  hurry  me,  dear!  You  won't,  will  you?  You 
see  I'd  rather  settle  down  to  It  slowly." 

Harry  winced  at  this.     He  stood  to  it,  however. 


414  Broken  Arcs 

"It's  bound  to  be  best  part  of  a  month,  anyhow," 
said  he.  The  tactician  in  him  whispered  that  it  was 
well  not  to  seek  reaction  by  over  exhortation;  and  so, 
firmly  though  reluctantly,  he  called  off  his  hounds  of 
argument  and  entreaty. 

It  was  not  easy,  however,  to  school  his  soul  to  pa- 
tience, and  he  lay  tossing  that  night,  therefore,  think- 
ing how  best  he  could  marshal  his  forces  so  that  he 
might  win  by  strategy  what  he  seemed  like  to  fail  by 
straight  assault.  When  he  awoke  the  following  morn- 
ing the  gaiety  of  sunlight  mocked  at  his  fears,  and 
apostrophizing  a  photographic  Rose  he  hailed  her  will 
as  divine.  Therewith,  though  he  knew  It  not,  the 
issue  was  won  for  him.  Nothing  could  more  surely 
have  won  him  her  will,  than  the  concession  of  his. 
And  it  proved  itself  so  In  the  fact. 

With  disquietude  he  saw  an  envelope  greeting  him 
at  his  breakfast  table  bearing  Webber-Colquhoun's 
penmanship.  He  avoided  It,  and  read  the  others  first. 
Finally  It  had  to  be  read.  As  his  eye  travelled  over 
it,  however,  his  face  expressed  extreme  astonishment. 
It  was  worded  thus — 

"Dear  Mr.  Denzil — 

"It  seems  to  me.  In  spite  of  your  extraordinary 
conduct  of  last  evening,  that  I  owe  you  an  apology.  I 
cannot  think  your  action  was  well  advised,  as  It  could 
only  introduce  bad  blood  Into  a  distressing  state  of 
affairs.  I  fail  to  see  whom  it  could  benefit,  or  what 
good  It  could  achieve;  to  say  nothing  of  its  being  a 
most  undignified  procedure. 

"But  my  thoughts  make  it  clear  to  me  that  I  owe 
you  an  apology;  and  I  do  so.  Perhaps,  after  all,  as 
things  have  turned  out,  they  are  better  as  they  are, 
as  I  am  not  fitted  by  nature  for  married  life.     I  trust 


Conclusions  -  415 

you  will  not  judge  me  as  Indelicate  If  I  observe  that  It 
fills  me  with  very  strange  emotions  when  I  think  of  my 
son  addressing  you  as  father.  I  feel  diffident,  too^ 
when  I  contemplate  your  maintenance  of  him.  I  sup- 
pose It  must  be  so.  There  Is  much  that  I  would  care 
to  know :  but  I  must  not  ask.  Nor,  I  fear,  can  I  ask 
you  to  let  me  see  him,  though  I  would  naturally  very 
much  like  to.  I  hope,  however,  you  will  permit  me 
to  make  a  settlement  on  him. 

"As  to  your  views  on  the  Candida :  I  think  they  are 
Impossible.  If  they  were  adopted  how  could  the  City 
be  maintained?  They  strike  at  the  root  of  Society. 
I  propose  giving  the  money  you  returned  to  a  hospital 
In  your  name. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  Injure  your  susceptibilities,  but  I 
feel  compelled  to  say  that  I  wish  you  would  regard  me 
at  your  disposal  for  any  proposal  you  might  wish  to 
carry  out.  The  competition  of  life  must  be  a  terrible 
thing;  and  a  penurious  old  age  Is  a  terrible  thing  to 
think  about.  Some  charity  or  other  ought  to  step  In 
to  stop  It. 

**Let  me  add  my  apology  for  a  wrong  that  has 
caused  me  some  uneasy  moments;  and  my  very  great 
desire  to  see  my  son.  I  hope  you  will  grant  me  this 
latter  wish. 

"I  am, 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"R.  Webber-Colquhoun. 

"P.  S. — I  wish  you  every  joy  In  your  future  married 
life.     You  are  better  adapted  to  It  than  I  should  be." 

Harry  read  through  this  twice,  and  then  regarding 
It  whimsically,  he  muttered — 
"Habet!" 
Then  his  astonishment  died  away;  and  as  he  took 


4i6  Broken  Arcs 

the  man  in  mental  review  he  perceived  that  such  a 
letter  was  In  no  way  out  of  keeping  with  his  character. 
Tossing  It  on  the  table,  he  addressed  It — 

*'Well,  anyhow,  you  prove  that  the  shreds  of  senti- 
ment are  healthier  In  a  man  than  no  emotion  at  all. 
Barras,  at  least,  could  not  have  written  you.  There- 
fore a  whipping  would  be  spoilt  on  him:  he  requires 
simply  eternal  extinction,  because  he  has  gone  over  to 
the  tigers.     Well,  I  suppose  IVe  got  to  reply  to  you." 

He  answered  It  forthwith,  for  already  paragraphs 
of  a  letter  were  leaping  through  his  mind.  Then  he 
sent  it  off  in  the  following  terms — 

"Dear  Mr.  Webber-Colquhoun — 

"I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  letter.  Whether 
my  action  was  justified  as  owing  to  you,  I  cannot  well 
say,  and  It  might  be  Impertinent  to  Inquire.  Your 
letter  seems  to  drive  me  to  that  opinion,  for  I  cannot 
conceive  of  its  being  written  anterior  to  such  an  action. 
It  was  at  least  owing  to  me ;  it  was,  I  think,  decidedly 
owing  to  the  girl  I  honour  and  esteem  (she  does  not 
know  I  have  met  you;  nor  will  know)  ;  and  It  seems 
to  me  emphatically  owing  to  an  aerial  yet  undeniable 
sense  of  justice.  You  may  contend  that  justice  is  not 
punitive  but  salutary.  In  which  case,  as  I  have  said, 
your  letter  seems  my  sufficient  justification.  I  thank 
you  for  your  letter.  I  can  hope  that  it  is  no  dislocated 
and  unrelated  apology,  but  that  It  is,  indeed,  the  ex- 
pression of  a  recognition  of  the  duty  each  one  of  us 
owes  to  the  consequences  of  our  deeds.  Such  a  recog- 
nition is  the  whole  context  of  Honour:  without  it, 
Honour  is  but  a  cant  phrase.     Forgive  my  didacticism. 

"Whom  you  may  desire  to  benefit  out  of  your  ex- 
chequer Is,  of  course,  no  business  of  mine.  You  must 
permit  me  courteously  to  decline  to  have  my  name 


Conclusions  417 

linked  with  it.  My  views  as  to  the  Candida  are  most 
emphatic.  I  am  deeply  interested  as  to  your  searching 
criticism  of  Society,  and  Its  ally  and  generator,  Com- 
merce. Permit  me,  in  a  recession  of  didacticism,  to 
point  out  to  you  that  the  phrase  *the  competition  of 
life'  is  a  much  misunderstood  one,  and  should  in  no 
way  be  confused  with  the  competition  of  commercial 
conditions.  One  is  divine  and  therefore  healthy.  The 
other  is  rapscallion  and  therefore  brutal  and  degrad- 
ing. The  confusion  of  this  is  the  confusion  of  much 
in  present  thinking. 

"As  to  my  step-son  (soon  to  be),  I  know  his 
mother's  frame  of  mind  too  well  to  think  of  It.  I  fear 
she  would  think  his  contact  with  you  degrading  to  him. 
I  do  not  wish  to  be  harsh. 

"Again  I  thank  you  for  your  letter.     I  can  readily 
understand  that  it  took  some  courage  to  write. 
"Believe  me, 

"Yours  faithfully, 
"Henry  Denzil." 

Having  sent  it,  he  mused  in  his  memory  some  of  its 
phrases,  following  out  In  his  thoughts  many  of  the 
themes  it  had  raised  In  his  mind. 

He  did  not  realize,  however,  that  in  Webber- 
Colquhoun's  mind  had  arisen  an  extraordinary  over- 
whelming desire  to  see  and  speak  with  his  son.  He 
bore  the  picture  of  his  face  continually  in  his  mind,  as 
it  had  been  fixed  on  him  wonderlngly  at  a  lunch  that 
became  memorable  to  him.  At  times  the  wish  to  see 
him  seemed  uncontrollable,  and  it  was  with  difficulty 
he  restrained  the  idea  of  following  him  out,  which  was 
now  not  difficult  to  do,  seeing  he  had  Harry  for  clue. 
Moreover,  as  time  passed,  the  desire  grew  more  stren- 
uous; grew  strenuous,  indeed,  with  baulking;  waxing 


41 8  Broken  Arcs 

to  the    fiercer  vigour  because  Its  fulfilment  was   so 
aloof,  and  yet  withal  so  temptingly  near. 


Winning  a  consent  from  Rose  for  immediate  action 
seemed  the  least  of  the  difficulties.  Harry  shuddered 
at  the  thought  of  suburban  regalia  and  ostentation. 
Rose  agreed  heartily,  and  desired  a  reclusive  and  sim- 
ple marching  through  legalities.  Mr.  Bradley,  how- 
ever, while  agreeing  with  some  heartiness  as  to  the 
registry  proposal,  seemed  to  think  that  some  festivities 
should  mark  the  event.  He  did  not  say  It  boldly,  but 
he  felt  that  such  a  thing  was  owing  to  his  gardening 
cronies. 

The  opposition  was  vital.  For  the  first  proposal 
contemplated  a  swift  sealing  of  the  marital  bond  at 
Chelsea,  followed  by  a  surreptitious  flight  for  the  open 
country.  There  seemed  a  charm  in  this  to  Harry;  as 
also  to  Rose.  Whereas  the  latter  proposal  argued  for 
the  registry  office  that  claimed  Streatham.  Moreover, 
the  ordeal  of  festivities  seemed  terrible  to  both. 

At  length  Harry  suggested  that,  instead  of  debating 
the  subject,  he  and  Rose  should  reconnoitre  at  both 
registry  offices. 

'*We  might  at  least  see  which  is  the  cleaner  and 
more  wholesome,'*  said  he.  * 

When  they  returned  it  was  with  dejected  counte- 
nances. 

*'Well,"  said  Mr.  Bradley,  "how  went  It?" 

Neither  Harry  nor  Rose  could  summon  a  smile. 

"I  don't  much  agree  with  the  archiepiscopal  view 
of  life,  I  must  say,"  Harry  declared;  "but,  on  my  life, 


Conclusions  419 

the  civic  ceremony  is  enough  to  make  one  an  arch 
ritualist  for  life." 

"They're  not  very  comely  places,  by  all  accounts," 
said  Mr.  Bradley. 

Rose  shuddered. 

"It  was  horrible,"  said  she. 

Mr.  Bradley  desired  information  as  to  how  events 
had  proceeded  with  them. 

"First  of  all  we  went  to  the  place  down  here.  I 
suppose  it's  only  natural  that  they  should  choose  the 
most  populous  site,  and  therefore,  by  consequence,  the 
most  unwholesome  and  depressing  sight.  The  whole 
place  looked  forbidding  and  undesirable." 

"It  was  only  Harry  that  made  me  go  In.  It  was 
horrible."     Rose  interposed  her  disgust. 

"Anyhow,  we  went  in  and  saw  the  sacred  ceremo- 
nial at  work.  I  thought  it  was  the  adjudication  of 
criminals  at  first.  The  couples  looked  like  it;  their 
manner  was  that  of  culprits,  and  their  faces  were 
mostly  sordid.  Certainly  the  official  looked  like  it; 
he  had  just  that  pugilistic  cast  of  countenance  that  most 
of  our  justiciaries  acquire.  The  place  was  dingy  and 
gloomy;  and — well,  we  fled." 

Mr.  Bradley  saw  disappointment  awaiting  his 
ancient  friends. 

"Was  yours  any  better?"  he  asked. 

"Worse!"  The  gloomy  monosyllable  fell  from 
Rose. 

"Far  worse  I"  Harry  took  it  up.  "The  people 
were  better,  but  the  place  was  worse.  But,  I  say, 
what  a  lot  of  it  goes  on!" 

"A  lot  of  what?"  It  was  Mr.  Bradley  that  asked, 
hope  reviving  in  him. 

"Marrying!"  Harry's  astonishment  seemed  Ingen- 
uous and  genuine. 


420  Broken  Arcs 

It  recovered  Rose  from  gloom.     She  laughed  out — 

*'Why,  of  course,  you  goose  I  People  are  always 
marrying." 

"It's  prodigious,  isn't  it?"  It  seemed  to  have 
smitten  Harry  as  a  vision  might  have.  ''When  you 
come  to  contemplate  the  size  of  London,  and  its  daily 
toll  of  marriages — It's — it's  crushing."  He  looked  at 
Rose  with  a  whimsicality  that  was  almost  pathetic. 
"I  should  like  to  feel  the  day  I  married  you  that  we 
were  the  only  two  on  the  wide  earth  marrying.  But 
this  looks  too  like  a  machine.  It's — it's  crushing, 
that's  the  only  word  for  it.     It's  terrible,  too  1" 

"You  shouldn't  think  about  these  things,"  said  Rose. 

"Most  admirable  advice  I"  echoed  Mr.  Bradley. 
"But  what  have  you  decided  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"I  rather  like  the  thought  of  flowers,  now."  Harry 
looked  over  to  Rose  as  he  spoke. 

"Flowers,  yes,  but  not  a  function,"  she  cried. 

Mr.  Bradley's  face  fell;  seeing  which  she  went  over 
to  him,  and,  putting  her  face  beside  his,  crooned  to 
him — 

"You  silly  old  man,  we  shall  have  it  just  as  you 
please.     Eh,  Harry?" 

"Right!"  cried  Harry,  "and  I  think  I  should  like 
It." 

"No,  no!"  cried  Mr.  Bradley. 

"Yes,"  came  the  emphasis  from  Harry.  "Marriage 
is  a  sacrament,  it  must  needs  be ;  and  therefore  its  sig- 
nificance is  necessarily  religious.  Of  course  civic  rites 
can't  recognize  this,  it's  out  of  their  function  at  once. 
I'm  glad  I  went  to  those  offices  to-day.  It  has  taught 
me  a  few  things." 

Thus  in  the  early  days  of  September,  to  Mr.  Brad- 
ley's inexpressible  joy,  there  fell  a  gala  of  festivities  in 
celebration  of  a  plighted  bond  betwixt  Harry  Denzil, 


Conclusions  421 

bachelor,  and  Rose  Foggetty,  spinster.  Mr.  Bradley 
had  paid  earnest  visits  to,  and  had  had  prolonged  con- 
versations with,  the  local  canonical  authority  In  order 
that  the  splnstership  of  Rose  Foggetty  should  be 
treated  with  the  necessary  deftness.  He  was  a  eupep- 
tic and  complacent  person,  buxom  with  this  world's 
goods,  and  was  won  to  acquiescence  with  not  much 
difficulty. 

Prior  to  the  function  there  had  been  earnest  dis- 
putations as  to  a  difficult  theme.  Mr.  Bradley  thought 
that  both  Harry  and  Rose  should  write  and  acquaint 
their  respective  fathers  of  the  coming  event.  Both 
avowed  the  utmost  aversion  to  this.  They  both  em- 
barrassed him  by  claiming  him  In  the  paternal  office. 
Yet  he  had  Insisted,  winning  his  point  at  the  very  point 
of  the  argumentative  sword. 

It  was  not  until  the  honeymoon  holiday  that  Mr. 
Foggetty's  reply  had  come  to  hand.  It  contained  only 
brief  good  wishes,  and  some  godly  counsel  which  was 
rather  hinted  at  than  roundly  declared.  This  very 
element  of  hesitancy  seemed  strangely  pathetic  to 
Rose,  and  a  further  pathetic  Interest  was  afforded  by 
a  certain  greyness  in  its  phrasing.  It  hinted  of  shaken 
faith  owing  to  declining  fortunes,  and,  probably,  a 
consequent  falling  off  in  the  esteem  of  others. 

From  Dr.  Denzil  came  no  reply.  Though  Harry 
expected  none.  It  angered  him  nevertheless.  A  mes- 
senger, however,  on  the  very  morning  of  the  day, 
brought  up  a  parcel,  which,  on  opening,  Harry  per- 
ceived to  be  a  token  from  Cicely.  It  moved  him 
deeply.  In  the  bustle  of  the  occasion  It  was  for- 
gotten. 

Battersby  served  Harry  as  lieutenant  for  the  occa- 
sion. As  they  stood  beneath  a  crest  of  nodding  lilies 
undergoing  the  painful  ordeal  of  surveying  the  guests 


422  Broken  Arcs 

and  the  curious,  Harry's  eyes  grew  round  with  wonder 
to  see  a  face  he  knew. 

"Battersby,  old  chap,"  he  whispered,  "there's  my 
sister.  Good  old  Cicely!  She  has  got  some  stuff  In 
her,  after  all." 

When  Rose  stood  beside  him,  he  whispered  again — 

"Do  you  know  Cicely's  here?"  but  met  only  a  frown 
that  evinced  disapproval  at  the  Introduction  of  such  a 
mundane  theme.  Whereat,  thrown  In  upon  Itself,  his 
mind  took  up  the  cry,  blotting  out  the  priestly  Intona- 
tion that  had  begun,  "Good  old  Cicely!" 

"I  bothered  father  into  letting  me  come,"  said 
Cicely  afterwards.  "Of  course  I  couldn't  be  away. 
I'll  come  down  to  see  you  afterwards,  if  I  may." 

"Of  course." 

"Father  doesn't  like  it,  but  he  isn't  going  to  rule 
my  life  always.     Doesn't  Rose  look  pretty?" 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  very.  I  congratulate  you,  and  wish  you  joy 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  should  like  to  talk  to 
her." 

Harry  whispered  to  Rose,  then  watched  them  as 
they  talked.  He  noticed  that  Rose  thawed  but  slowly. 
He  noticed,  too,  that  Cicely  paid  no  heed  to  aloofness, 
but  won  It  away  by  an  accumulation  of  graclousness. 
"Proud  little  wife !"  he  thought,  and  then  took  up  the 
last  word  and  whispered  it  to  himself,  finding  curious 
music  resident  In  it.  As  Rose  melted  to  open  frank- 
ness of  smiles,  he  detached  himself  to  seek  Jim. 

He  found  him  In  tears. 

"Grandfather  says  you're  going  away  with  mother," 
he  complained,  being  exhorted  to  tell  his  grief. 

"Yes,  for  a  short  while,  to  come  back  for  good. 
Isn't  that  good  enough  for  you?" 

Harry  to  Jim  was  a  tonic,  and  It  was,  doubtless, 


Conclusions  423 

therefore  that  he  won  such  attachment  from  him.  He 
was  this  now.  The  raindrops  scattered  before  the 
wind,  and  a  sunshine  dawned  through  the  gloom. 

"Will  you  always  be  here,  then?'* 

"Yes,  always." 

"I  shall  like  that.'' 


XI 

The  relation  of  this  history  falls  to  a  close.  It  is 
an  ancient  cynicism  that  faults  a  history  for  a  conclu- 
sion with  the  reverberation  of  marriage  bells,  saying 
that  marriage  bells  are  the  concussion  of  tragedy,  or 
at  best  a  peal  of  warning  for  a  series  of  concussions  to 
be  induced  thereafter.  Such  a  cynicism,  if  it  mean 
only  that  the  life  indicated  has  more  likelihood  of 
dramatic  interest  than  the  life  dealt  with,  is  true  in 
its  human  philosophy,  as  multitudes  arise  to  testify. 
But  it  sadly  lacks  in  its  artistic  philosophy.  It  is  true 
that  the  history  may  chance  to  fail  on  the  threshold 
of  the  deeper  Interest,  but  it  need  not  be  so  true  that  it 
has  failed  to  conclude  its  sequence. 

The  human  history  never  closes.  Neither  does  it 
conclude  in  the  corporate,  nor,  a  suffering  humanity 
insists  with  Its  latest  breath  of  hope,  does  it  conclude 
in  the  individual,  sense.  It  is  a  boundless  ocean  of 
wave  leading  to  wave,  waves  born  of  waves.  But  an 
artistic  history  both  begins  and  concludes,  its  conclu- 
sion sounding  the  last  word  of  the  sentence  begun  with 
its  first  event.  Artistic  architectonics  rest  on  this  fact. 
An  artistic  history  is,  in  short,  a  wave  picked  from 
the  ocean,  its  last  fall  concluding  its  first  impulse. 
Everything  thereafter  is  a  fresh  wave,  a  fresh  history. 
It  may  derive  from  the  earlier  wave,  but  Its  relation  is 


424  Broken  Arcs 

B,  separate  theme,  not  to  be  confusion  with  the  earlier 
on  pain  of  artistic  incoheslon. 

Resting  on  this  fact,  there  scarcely  remains  much 
to  tell. 

A  far  felicity  beckoned  Rose  and  Harry.  It  lay 
with  them  to  achieve  it  slowly — painfully,  if  need  be : 
it  was  not  brought  to  them  in  mystic  sort  by  the  inter- 
change of  plain  gold  rings.  On  their  return  to  Streat- 
ham  the  process  began,  and  it  was  marked  by  heights 
of  exuberant  joy  and  depths  of  depression  and  discom- 
fort. He  was  to  acquire  gentleness  in  the  process,  and 
she  strength:  that  they  might  thus  stand  completer  In 
themselves  for  being  completer  in  each  other. 

As  for  Mr.  Bradley  he  shrank  away,  leaving  them  to 
themselves.  For  awhile  they  suffered  it  unknowingly, 
scarcely  perceiving  that  they  were  so  much  alone. 
Then  they  joined  in  a  hearty  raid  on  him.  Lovers 
are  ever  selfish,  and  therein  they  fail  in  the  chief  point 
of  exuberant  youth.  They  had  incurred  so  fell  a 
charge  in  the  past  only  too  frequently:  which  is  not  a 
thing  to  murmur  at  but  to  see  and  acknowledge.  We 
do  not  grumble  that  the  throstle's  song  is  not  the  same 
as  the  nightingale's.  But  now  they  made  amends.  In 
nothing  were  they  so  much  in  concert  as  In  tending  his 
comforts  and  in  seeking  his  Interests.  It  was  not  so 
much  a  virtue  in  them,  as  It  was  an  advantage  to  them, 
giving  them  an  initial  unity  of  effort.  Being  now  not 
so  filled  with  the  Insatiable  hunger  that  the  absence  of 
the  other  created,  they  found  room  In  their  thoughts 
for  the  gentler  amenities  of  life.  The  burning  quest 
had  declined  from  fury,  and  their  souls  expanded  in 
plenteousness. 

Jim,  too,  shared  In  this.  Joining  now  the  ranks  of 
ordinary  childhood  in  the  possession  of  a  father  he 
even  began  to  make  friends.     Harry  encouraged  him 


Conclusions  425- 

in  this.  But  the  friendships  so  kindled  were  not  of 
long  endurance,  and  their  disruption  discovered  a  fact 
in  Jim  that  had  else  lain  undreamt  of.  It  was  the  fac- 
ulty of  anger.  Not  mere  anger,  but  a  fierce  sudden 
fury  that  in  its  very  display  burnt  out  Interest  In  who- 
ever had  caused  it.  The  most  noteworthy  and  sig- 
nificant occasion  was  In  his  first  tentative  friendship. 

It  was  in  the  early  autumn.  He  had  gone  out  with 
his  comrade  to  an  adjacent  field  of  recreation,  and  had 
returned  abruptly,  seizing  a  book  uncommunicatively. 
Both  Rose  and  Mr.  Bradley  sought  to  extract  the  rea- 
son of  his  taciturnity:  but  vainly.  Then,  following  her 
usual  policy  (a  policy,  be  it  said,  extracted  from  the 
experiences  of  her  own  desires).  Rose  had  left  him  to 
himself,  to  pass  through  the  gloom  of  his  mind.  But 
a  letter  brought  round  from  his  late  playmate's  mother 
informed  her,  in  indignant  language  and  agitated  con- 
cern, that  her  immaculate  son  had  been  fiercely  and 
wantonly  set  upon  by  Rose's  villainlsh  offspring  and 
smitten  to  the  earth,  and  left  there  to  recover  as  best 
he  might  from  so  cowardly  an  assault.  As  the  other 
youth  overtopped  Jim  by  a  head  and  more,  and  as  Jim 
was  scarcely  athletic  of  build,  Rose  marvelled.  But 
she  could  not  extract  anything  from  her  small  and 
studious  brigand.  Harry  was  appealed  to,  being 
brought  down  from  his  work.  Yet  even  his  interroga- 
tory failed  awhile.     At  length  Harry  said — 

"Did  he  say  anything  that  made  you  angry?" 

Jim's  eyes  revealed  that  the  cause  had  been  searched, 
but  his  lips  said  nothing. 

"Come  now,  old  chap,  tell  me  what  he  said?  He 
probably  deserved  it  if  you  gave  it  to  him,  Jim;  so  Fm 
not  angry.     But  I  want  to  know." 

Jim's  eyes  flooded  with  tears,  and  in  a  rushing  tide 
the  information  came  forth — 


426  Broken  Arcs 

"He  said  you  weren't  my  father." 

''Did  he?"  Harry's  soul  flinched  at  the  naked 
statement,  and  then  flushed  to  pity  of  this  little  quiver- 
ing parcel  of  humanity. 

''I  told  him  he  was  a  liar.  He  said  his  mother  told 
him  it  was  impossible  because  you  had  only  just  mar- 
ried mother,  that  I  had  no  father." 

"So  you  struck  him." 

"Yes,  lots  of  times,  and  a  policeman  pulled  me  off, 
and  I  came  home.     You  are  my  father,  aren't  you?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

Harry  had  replied  to  the  irate  letter  with  the  infor- 
mation that  he  "fully  approved  of  the  castigation  that 
had  been  dealt  out  to  a  retailer  of  his  mischievous 
parent's  mischievous  conversation."  And  he  took  the 
keenest  delight  the  following  day  in  seeing  a  certain 
daintily  chiselled  nose  turned  heavenward  in  contempt 
of  him. 

Despite  this  disastrous  beginning  Jim  continued  to 
make  friends,  for  Harry  encouraged  him  to  it.  He 
took  a  deep  and  keen  interest  in  his  protege-son's  men- 
tal progress,  the  more  so  because  he  feared  for  his 
future.  His  introspection  showed  him  that  he  himself 
was  too  quick  to  suffer  in  this  world;  as  was  also  his 
wife;  though  neither  of  them  was  a  tithe  as  sensitive  as 
Jim.  In  action  and  reaction  it  made  him  strange  in 
his  ways,  and  this  strangeness  made  him  yet  more 
sensitive. 

Webber-Colquhoun  seemed  blotted  out  of  Harry's 
mind.  He  would  have  been  considerably  perturbed 
to  learn  that  Webber-Colquhoun  had  lately  haunted 
Streatham,  and  had  actually  witnessed  Jim's  prowess 
over  the  young  gossip-monger. 

The  winter  searched  Mr.  Bradley.  It  came  in  rain 
and  storm  and  kept  him  in  continual  huskiness.     Nor 


Conclusions  427, 

would  he  seek  relief  by  flying  Its  rigours.  At  length  it 
searched  and  shook  him  so  that  he  had  perforce  to  fly. 
Yet,  even  then,  he  would  not  go  far,  contenting  himself 
with  Winmouth. 

While  he  was  there,  In  the  opening  months  of  the 
year,  the  winter  culminated  In  sudden  and  frosty 
rigours.  As  reports  proclaimed  this  to  be  universal, 
Harry  and  Rose  feared  for  Mr.  Bradley.  She  deter- 
mined to  go  down  to  tend  him.  But  before  she  could 
translate  her  decision  to  practice  he  had  returned,  obvi- 
ously In  the  throes  of  congestion.  Months  of  anxiety 
supervened.  Rose  and  Harry  tended  him  continually, 
and  his  joy  In  their  physical  presence  was  the  only 
strand  In  his  clasp  by  which  he  kept  fast  hold  of  life. 
The  spring  brought  him  relief,  but  It  brought  the 
calamity  that  crushed  him. 

With  the  advent  of  brighter  days  Jim  had  been  re- 
leased to  the  liberty  of  the  open-air  playing  ground 
that  lay  handy.  Harry  would  often  be  with  him,  for 
the  development  of  JIm*s  mind  began  to  have  an  ab- 
sorbing Interest  for  him. 

Once,  as  he  sat  working,  restlveness  was  In  his  blood. 
The  sunshine  falling  over  the  snowy  splendour  of  an 
apple-tree  In  full  bloom  taunted  him  and  tempted  him. 
He  contented  himself  for  a  while  with  feasting  his 
eyes  richly  upon  it,  but  soon  a  gentle  wind  bore  to  his 
ears  the  silvery  laughter  of  children  at  play.  It  was 
too  much.  He  tossed  his  work  aside,  and  went  out  to 
find  Rose. 

"Come,"  said  he,  "It's  too  rich  a  day  to  waste.  Let 
us  go  and  find  Jim  for  a  romp." 

"IVe  been  Itching,"  said  she,  "to  go  and  dig  you 
out." 

Out  they  went,  happily  and  gaily.  The  clouds  that 
sped  across  the  blue  seemed  by  mysterious  chance  to 


1428  'Broken  J  res 

avoid  the  sun,  and  the  golden  tide  of  his  splendour  was 
unbroken.  Birds  were  in  full  song,  and  flowers,  bloom 
and  leaf  made  the  scene  jocund  and  enchanting  to  the 
eye.  But  when  they  reached  the  common  no  Jim  could 
they  find.  They  searched  for  him  carelessly  awhile, 
enjoying  each  other  happily.  Then  their  perturbation 
and  unrest  blotted  out  the  effulgence  of  the  day. 

Everywhere  they  searched,  but  could  not  find  him. 
Then,  chiding  him  to  each  other,  they  returned  to 
await  him.  Hours  passed  by,  and  he  did  not  come. 
Anxiety  raised  an  unhealthy  flush  to  Mr.  Bradley's 
cheek,  but  did  not  cause  the  truant  to  return. 

Anxiety  had  reached  its  zenith  in  the  evening  when 
a  ring  came  at  the  bell  and  a  knock  fell  on  the  door. 
Harry  was  first  at  the  door,  but  Rose  was  not  far  be- 
hind him.  Terror  came  on  them  to  behold  a  blue- 
arrayed  constable,  who  informed  them — 

"Nothing  to  be  alarmed  at,  but  we've  got  a  little 
man  round  the  corner  that  belongs  here,  I  think.  He's 
just  a  bit  hurt,  met  with  accident  We'll  bring  him 
round." 

The  sound  of  heavy  feet  in  the  hall  made  Mr.  Brad- 
ley cry  out  to  learn  what  was  the  matter.  On  learning 
that  Jim  was  being  brought  in  unconscious  on  a 
stretcher,  his  lips  closed  tightly,  and  he  slid  forward 
in  his  chair.  They  had  a  second  patient  in  their 
care. 

It  was  some  days  before  it  was  even  possible  to 
question  Jim,  and  Harry  was  glad  afterwards  that  it 
was  he  who  had  essayed  the  task. 

"It  was  that  man  I  saw  the  day  you  met  mother," 
said  he. 

Webber-Colquhoun !  Harry  restrained  himself,  and 
sought  to  learn  the  tale  coherently. 

"He  came  to  play  with  me,"  said  Jim  in  response 


Conclusions  429 

to  Harry's  question,  "and  I  told  him  to  go  away  be- 
cause you  dldn^t  like  him.  But  he  said  that  you  and 
he  were  friends  now.  He  asked  me  to  go  and  help 
him  buy  some  cakes.** 

''And  did  you?" 

'*Yes,  father.  We  went  In  a  carriage  a  long  long 
way,  and  I  began  to  be  afraid.  He  kept  on  kissing 
me.     You're  not  angry,  are  you,  father?" 

"No,  Jim,  no!" 

"Then  why  do  you  look  like  that?" 

"Fm  a  little  angry  with  the  man,  laddie,  but  go  on!" 

"I  was  afraid.  I  didn't  like  him  kissing  me.  I 
thought,  and  I  thought,  till  it  hurt  me.  Then  I  told 
him  I  would  like  to  buy  the  sweets  now.  So  he  stopped 
the  carriage  and  we  got  out.  You're  not  crying, 
father,  are  you?" 

"No,  boy,  go  on,  old  chap!" 

"While  we  were  in  the  shop  I  ran  out  when  he 
wasn't  looking.  I  ran,  and  I  ran,  and  I  ran.  Then 
something  hit  me  and  it  hurt  me  so;  and  then  I  was 
here  with  mother  and  you." 

He  had  been  run  over  running  away  from  his 
father.  As  the  mists  gathered  before  Harry's  eyes  it 
seemed  to  him  like  the  dark  mysterious  handwriting  of 
Fate  on  the  scroll  of  life. 

When  he  told  Rose  the  story  he  told  her,  too,  who 
it  was  had  thought  to  capture  him,  how  he  came  to 
meet  him,  with  all  the  rest  that  he  had  not  spoken  of 
hitherto,  and  he  saw  her  face  set  hard  and  cold. 

Sternly  they  fought  the  Arch-Dread,  but  the  little 
life  slipped  away  from  their  hold.  He  seemed  quies- 
cently happy  as  the  tide  of  life  ebbed  from  him,  con- 
tented supremely  if  only  Rose  and  Harry  were  there 
with  him.  His  great  eyes  followed  them  gravely 
about  the  room.     Now  and  then  he  would  murmur  for 


43^  Broken  Arcs 

one  or  other  of  them,  but  it  was  only  for  a  clasp  of 
hands. 

Summer  was  young,  and  the  day  was  joyous  with- 
out, when  his  life  was  gently  erased  from  the  page  of 
the  living.  Stricken  Mr.  Bradley  was  in  the  room,  and 
his  eyes  passed  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  three  of 
them.  They  dwelt  last  on  Harry,  and  a  smile  flickered 
contently  on  his  face  as  they  closed  peacefully.  Harry 
had  hold  of  his  hand,  and  presently  as  he  leaned  over 
the  face  and  kissed  it,  a  great  sob  broke  on  him.  Rose 
knelt  by  the  bedside,  and  Mr.  Bradley  went  out  to 
hide  his  tears. 

They  found  him  presently  in  his  favourite  chair 
asleep  or  unconscious.  In  less  than  a  week  his  life, 
too,  had  fled. 


XII 

A  THROSTLE  gave  out  his  broken  earnest  song  sway- 
ing on  a  twig  at  the  far  end  of  the  garden,  and  a  large 
grave  summer  evening  was  stealing  over  the  earth. 
Into  the  dark  room  the  music  stole,  hushing  both  of 
them  as  Rose  buried  a  tear-stricken  face  on  Harry's 
breast.     He  caressed  her  hair,  then  bent  and  kissed  it. 

"It*s  the  old  chapter  finished,  and  the  new  one  be- 
gins," said  he.  "My  darling,  my  wife,  we  must  leave 
here.  We  must  be  all  in  all  to  each  other  in  the  new 
chapter,  dearest.  Don^t  cry,  dear  I  But  it  mustn't  be 
here.  Let's  go  back  to  dear  old  Chelsea  for  a  start. 
Seeing  old  Battersby  to-day  reminded  me  of  It." 

So  they  turned  to  the  way  of  nomads. 

THE   END 


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